


La Vie Boheme

by nightmare_kisser



Series: La Vie Boheme Universe [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-30
Updated: 2012-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-04 13:45:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 46,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightmare_kisser/pseuds/nightmare_kisser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At age 25, Kurt Hummel goes out into the 'real world' looking for work in the theatres of Chicago; there's less competition there for roles than in New York. During callbacks for Rent, however, Kurt meets a blast from his past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Initially

**Author's Note:**

> A more cheerful fic that is AU after roughly 2x09 of Glee. I used this photo of Max Adler to describe how older!Dave looks: http://tinypic.com/r/1589j01/7

I inhale briskly, the slicing, biting, moisture-that-ices-your-bones cold seeping into my lungs as I step out of my apartment. Going down the street to the Starbucks on the corner is a journey in and of itself. I instantly can't feel my skin, or whatever is showing of it (like my face). The slapping wind rushes up my coat and violates my skin like an unwanted hand. I shiver violently and find solace in the small furnace that is the coffee house as soon as I step in, the door closing behind me.

A sigh of relief escapes my dry lips. I whip out some lip balm to prevent them from chapping (I hate that peely, crusting feeling that comes with chapped lips; and mine always seem to bleed, tasting constantly of yucky salt and metal). I pace up to the counter, and the sweet black-Asian girl behind the counter automatically rings up my order. She knows me well by now; I come here every morning during her shift, so she at least knows what my favorite drink and usual vanilla bean scone to go with it.

"Here you are, Kurt," she says as she hands me the order minutes later. We're on a first-name basis as of late, since this past week has made me giddy and friendly beyond reason. She giggles. "Damn, it's cold outside. Your nose is all red."

I laugh bitterly. "Yeah, and I have to confess, Alicia: I _hate_ it. Ohio got pretty cold, but this? This is insane. I never thought Lake Michigan made winters here this extreme."

She shrugs where she leans over the counter. As she brushes some hair back from her cheek to tack behind her ear, I admire her skin tone. I love her complexion; not a single trace of acne scars, and there's a slightly olive, slightly caramel tone on her skin, a perfect blend of her heritages. Her eyes are slanted, but her lips are full, and her nose is caught between the African and Korean traits. She's lovely in her own way, and she reminds me of Mercedes and Tina.

"Well, get used to it, singer-boy," she teases lightly. "Your life is part of Chicago, now, people and weather and work and all." And she smiles. "Just like me."

I laugh a little, taking a bite of my scone. After I swallow, I wave my circumstance aside. "Yes, well. It's not so bad. At least the theatre is warm. Call-backs are today, you know."

She grins broadly. "Oh, I hope you get the part, Kurt. You're so talented, and so attractive! You deserve it," she says, but before she can say more, she's called over by another employee; some nerdy young guy who doesn't know how to handle the coffee machine just yet, and has far too much acne. "Um, I'm sorry," she says with a sigh, "But work's calling me. I'll see you tomorrow morning, okay?" And she dashes off, sending a cute little wave in her wake.

I smile, my mood completely sunny despite the dismal, grey-and-threatening-snow cloudiness outside. I finish off my scone, sip some warming coffee, and soon, I'm ready to face the world.

.o0o.

The Oriental Theatre in downtown Chicago is probably the most extravagant and lusciously decorated theatre I personally have ever been graced to be inside of. The intricate, Asian-inspired designs and complex architecture all across the walls, stairs, and ceiling, and even into the main hall is just… mind-blowing. I gape at it a little, not one for buildings as much as I am one for interior design. It's indescribable. And it's also the same theatre I initially visited about a decade ago, when I was still a teenager, to see _Wicked_ with Burt and Carole (yes, we dragged Finn with us).

That had been the absolute best day of my entire life. Everything about that play had been flawless, even the African American Fierro (which came as a mild but pleasant surprise, since I always pictured him white due to the fact that he's the Scarecrow, and in the original Oz, everybody was white). It was so magical, so memorable, and since then, I've seen Wicked twice, making a total of three times of watching the spectacular play.

Thus, here I am again, except this time, I return not as an audience member, but as a potential actor. I can feel my heart thudding in my chest like a jackhammer on concrete, sending waves of electric thrill through me. I'm nervous. I'm so nervous that I've started nibbling at my cuticles, which isn't attractive in the least, but it helps me cope.

I slip into the main theatre, a pass dangling around my neck. They hand them out to all the try-outs, so that they can return without having to pay admittance or be accused of loitering. The theatre is mainly empty, save for a few directors and actors lined up on the stage.

One of the actors catches my eye; he's as tall as I am, with broad shoulders and a strong demeanor, his jaw lined with tasteful, rustic stubble. He's a brunet, just my taste, and he even has shaped eyebrows. He's in a neatly pressed business-like button-down shirt, caramel-colored, with a sleek, silky, striped tie hanging down his front. I smile at him, because _damn,_ even I can't deny that he's handsome. His build is just right, too; muscular, firm, masculine. He stares at me in return, something lighting in his eyes as if he's seen me before. Heh, I get that often. I'm just one of those faces, I suppose.

"Ah, Mr. Hummel," one of the directors states. "You're on time, and yet one of the last to arrive." It isn't said out of irritation, thankfully. He looks amused. "Take a place on the stage with the others, won't you?"

"Of course," I murmur softly, mortified that I drew unnecessary attention to myself by being one of the last to arrive. Maybe I shouldn't have stopped for coffee…

I plop my bag down where I see some others have theirs, in the velvet seats in the first row before the stage. I then step up onto the stage and take an empty space that somehow morphs into being next to stubble-chinned guy. He smiles oddly at me, and I can't place why the smile looks so odd and vaguely familiar. But his eyes… His eyes are a molten brown, like hot chocolate. I feel a little warmer just looking into them.

"Hello," I greet in a whisper while the directors speak to us about how callbacks work. But I already know; I've auditioned about three times in two different theatres in Chicago already, over the course of the past five months. This fourth one is no different.

"Hi," he says, and his voice is smooth, and oddly just as familiar as his smile. "Hummel, was it?" he says, and there's that smile again, like he knows something about me that I don't. What, do I have a coffee foam moustache on my upper lip or something?

"Yes, that's right," I reply. "Kurt Hummel."

I wait for him to give me his name. However, he's cut off by one of the directors. "All right, everyone, now it's time for the moment you've been waiting for: casting." And he starts listing off character names and corresponding actor names, down and down a list, until I hear the character I tried out for. "And Angel will be played by… Kurt Hummel." And I feel ecstatic. _Oh my Glee, I made it!_ my mind screams as my dimpled smile dares to eat my face, _I MADE it!_ But the director goes on, "And Angel's lover, Collins, will be played by… David Karofsky."

I stop dead in my tracks, my entire body tensing and freezing. I know that name. I could never forget that name. I left the person with that name back at McKinley high school, staying at Dalton (a school I came to hate just as much but for a different reason) until I graduated in order to _avoid_ that person and that name.

"Aw man, he stole my thunder," the guy beside me says with a nervous bubble of laughter. "I was going to introduce myself, and he goes and ruins the surprise." He's joking, but mainly out of fear. I can feel it rolling off of him: fear of my reaction.

I turn to face him, staring. "You…! You can't be _him,_ you simply _cannot_ be the exact same person who harassed me during high school –" I am a twenty-five year old male, a grown adult, and I feel sick to my stomach over high school. It's pathetic, really.

Karofsky looks like the perfect definition of 'uncomfortable.' He fidgets, his eyes not looking into mine any longer. "I know how you must think about me, and really, the odds of us meeting again outside of a class reunion is remarkable, but please, Kurt, don't jump the conclusion that I'm the same person. It's demeaning, and not true at all. Besides… we have to work together, now. We're playing matching parts in this play. And I don't know about you, but I need this gig. I don't have much else income to go on."

The play. _Rent._ It has returned to Chicago for the first time in at least five years, and it's one of my dreams to be in it, and one of my fantasies to play Angel with some cute guy as Collins. Only… this isn't at all how I imagined it. I thought I was with strangers, but I see now that there is one familiar face here, and it's the guy next to me, a nightmare from my past brought to the present to torture me. Why can't I truly escape Lima, Ohio? Why is it so difficult for destiny or Fate or Karma to let me be free?

But Karofsky's right. I need this part, too. Without it, all I have is my meager job at an establishment I'd rather not name. The point is, I'm screwed without this, but also a bit screwed because of it. I nearly want to march up to the director and say, 'Really, Mr. Director, REALLY? Dave Karofsky? Is he really such a good singer and dancer that you had to pick HIM?'

But that's the intriguing part about all of this, isn't it? The fact that Karofsky got a part proves that he must have been holding out in high school, because he's talented enough to land a relatively major role in this production. My curiosity sparked, I say as casually as I can, "So this means you can sing?"

He blinks for a moment. Then, slowly, he smiles. "Well, yeah. Of course I can sing. My forte is closer to crooner-music, but hey, I can pull this off. At least, the director seems to think that I can."

I give him a quick up-and-down with my eyes. He doesn't look like he can belt notes with skill or live up to the part as portrayed in the film (I never got to see the actual play for myself due to money issues, which makes me wonder how it differs), but at the same time, he _is_ , admittedly, attractive enough, and his voice sounds like it's changed some.

I smirk at him. "You do realize, Karofsky, that you're playing a _homosexual_ character, don't you?"

He grins deviously. "And you do realize, Kurt, that you're playing a _cross-dressing_ one?"

"Ooh, quick and clever," I retort, and I wonder if this counts as flirting. I sure as Hell hope not. "But yes, I realize. And I only said it out of shock. You can't expect me to simply accept the fact that the same person who was homophobic toward me in high school is suddenly all for acting gay."

"Hey, the 'lover' I have in this play is supposed to look like a girl, so it doesn't seem too far-fetched. Besides, it seems you've forgotten that I was a closet-case."

I allow my surprise to show on my face. " _Was?_ As in, you're out now?"

He makes a gesture I can't decipher the meaning of just before he says awkwardly, "Um… yes. Yes, I guess that's what I'm saying. I mean, I don't broadcast it to the world in everything I do, but tons of people know. My family, my newest circle of friends, and even Mr. Director over there."

I shake my head. "Consider my mind officially blown. You weren't lying. You _have_ changed, Karofsky."

"Yeah. So much so that I wish you'd stop calling me by my last name. it makes me feel like high school all over again, and let me be the first to say that I'd rather not relive that particular chunk of my life. It wasn't pleasant for you, either, I know, but… well. Give me a break, I was stupid then." And he sighs, running a hand over his hair.

"Sorry, uh… Dave," I say, the name strange in my mouth. "And I suppose I can give you a break, considering the fact that I have no choice." With a sly smile, I add, "After all, you're my lover now."

He blushes. He actually turns red in the cheeks, and glancing away. Clearing his throat, he says off-handedly (or at least an attempt at sounding like such), "Only in the play, Kurt. Don't make this weird."

I laugh. "How can I not? It _is_ weird. Beyond so."

He shrugs. "I guess…"

The director calls out the final role and passes out scripts and rehearsal dates to each of the actors, the rejectees being offered stage crew positions if they stated in their audition packets that they were capable of the work needed, their skills refined enough for the tasks.

"Hey," Dave says suddenly, his packet rolled into his hands. "Do you… want to rehearse some time soon? Outside of this schedule, I mean."

I quirk an eyebrow. "Dave Karofsky, are you asking me out _already?_ "

He makes a face. "No," he says immediately, defensive. Nearly reverted back to high school, but not quite. There is still a gentle edge to his tone. "I just… this is the first professional play I've been in. I want to make it the best I can."

I nod, understanding. "All right. Fine. We can practice together for our main songs, 'Today 4 U' and 'I'll Cover You.' But outside of that, you'll have to deal with the planned rehearsals."

He looks relived and seeming to suppress excitement at the same time. "Great. When?"

I pretend like I don't care. "Anytime. Today, tomorrow, whenever. Just not on Wednesdays through Saturdays from nine to two."

"You have to work?" he assumes, raising an eyebrow slightly.

"Yes," I sniff, a little irritated. I really hate my job, but it was the only one I could land at the time.

He chuckles, "Yeah, I know how that is. I have to work on Mondays through Saturdays, but I have less hours than you."

"Lucky," I reply, definitely miffed now. He looks like he has everything so easy. How did _that_ happen? Aren't all meathead-jock-bullies of the high school sort supposed to grow up and be complete lazy-bum-assholes that work as either mechanics (not like my dad, because he's above the rest of them) or perhaps even a gas station or two? How come _he_ breaks the stereotype?

Oh. Right. It might have something to do with the fact that he's _gay._ Because that changes _everything._

I roll my eyes, and Dave doesn't know why, but that's part of the fun of reacting to my own thoughts.

"Anyway," I say at length, retrieving my bag and slinging it over my shoulder, "Tomorrow is Tuesday. When do you get off work? We can loosely run through the script for about an hour."

There's that smile again. It's starting to really tick me off, how he keeps looking at me. What, did he actually used to have _feelings_ for me, and they're returning full-force now that we've met again? Tch.

"I get off at five. I could buy you dinner before we begin, if you like."

Cocky bastard. "No, thanks," I huff, "That's too similar to a date. I still have a grudge against you."

He makes an expression I've never seen on his face before: something along the lines of a pout. "I'm sorry you feel that way, Kurt. I never hated you, you know."

"Yes, but I've always hated and been terrified of _you,_ " I counter a tad bitterly. I start walking toward the exit of the theatre, and ultimately, aim to make my way out of the entire building.

I don't know why my moods keep shifting; one minute I'm laughing about how weird this situation is, and the next I'm back to my bitchy self from high school. It must be his appearance running against his personality and all of what I remember of him from years ago; the combination is throwing me off my normal groove. I scrunch my nose at the idea that one person can trigger such a thing.

I hear Dave sigh out of exasperation and jog a little to catch up to me while he grabs and throws on his coat. "Hey, wait! Look, I know you're pissed at me for what I did back then, but I'm really, truly sorry about it, okay? I've made a new life for myself. And now that you're in it again, I'd like to start fresh."

"What for?" I ask, stopping and pivoting on my heel to face him again. He nearly runs into me, stopping just in time to keep our faces within a foot apart. He takes a step back, probably remembering how such proximity used to work out between us (which is NOT WELL).

His shoulders fall. "Because…" he starts, and there's something I can tell he's trying not to say, "We need to work together, that's why. We have to have an okay relationship with each other if we have to play the parts we were assigned."

Fuck. I hate it when people make good points I can't argue against. Pinching the bridge of my nose before smoothing out my hair, I nod. "Yeah, I can't deny a valid point like that." I pause. "Fine. Let's start fresh. If I hadn't learned your name, I daresay it would have been a fresh start to begin with, since I didn't quite recognize you at first. So…" I hold out my hand for him to shake. "Hi."

He smiles crookedly as he takes my hand in his – holy crap, his hands are warm; and strong, much larger than mine, but surprisingly nearly as soft – and bobs it up and down. "Hi," he replies lowly.

I feel my heart skip a teeny beat and my stomach lurch the tiniest bit in a pleasant manner when his hand lingers in mine for a moment before he releases it. Argh! Why does my body feel the need to incessantly react in ways I don't want it to? It's infuriating that I feel attracted to him. I shouldn't; he used to torment me and threaten me and even forcefully _robbed me of my first guy-kiss_ , and yet I know he's different now and it's oddly _intriguing._ But I still hate and distrust him. Attraction has nothing to do with those two emotions.

"So, tomorrow at five?" he says, seeking confirmation.

I shrug, acting aloof. "I suppose. Where should we meet?"

His mouth tenses and his brows come together, clearly puzzled. "Um… good question. How about outside of the Barnes and Noble several blocks from here? You know, the big one near one of the colleges?"

He's so vague. It makes me wonder how long he's lived here. But since _I_ know my way around, I nod, clearly picturing the bookstore in my head. "Yeah, okay. That works out perfectly." It's not too far away from my apartment, actually. "I'll meet you there."

"Fantastic," he smiles, and this time, his smile is sincere enough that it almost seems endearing to me. I shake off the feeling and turn with a curt wave goodbye to leave the Oriental Theatre.

What, I wonder, have I gotten myself into?


	2. Sequentially

Sighing loudly, I fall onto my couch and flip channels on my teeny twenty-something inch TV, a hand-me-down from my parents. I find a random double feature of the two Tron movies, one over thirty years old and the other within ten. I watch it mindlessly, nothing else very interesting on. I wish they'd show re-runs of the Tyra Banks Show. I used to watch it all the time when I was younger.

My cat suddenly leaps up onto my yummy, purring moderately. I remember when I first got him: he was one of those "free kittens!" offers, and I melted when I saw his cute little face. Nearly entirely black, he has two patches of cream on one paw and the end of his tail. His eyes are large and green, a thin rim of orange around the edges.

"Hiya, buddy," I murmur as I stoke the soft fur along his back. His butt goes up in the air, tail erect. I laugh and scratch where his spine meets the base of his tail. He nearly falls forward, but catches himself enough to lie down on me, heat radiating from his tiny feline body. I smile as his purring grows, my hand rubbing his chest and under his chin.

" _Meerwow,_ " he mews. He's gotten bigger, but not by much. He's like a teenage cat right about now, not fully grown but no longer a kitten, either. He runs his face against mine, and snuggles under my chin, into my neck.

"Stop that, Figgles," I giggle, his fur tickling me. His name is one of those silly ones that evolved from a different name entirely. Originally, Finn and I decided to poke fun at our old principal by calling him Mr. Figgins, but then we realized the cat was too cuddly and happy to be that old stick-in-the-mud, so we changed it a little to simply Figgles.

My cat doesn't obey. If anything, he rebels by kneading dough with his clawless paws against my chest, tickling me further.

"Ah! Stop, stop!" I laugh, and he doesn't like the earthquake of my laughter rumbling beneath him, so he hops off with a bored expression on his furry face. Tron being neglected, I click the TV off and head into my kitchen. Sitting on my miniature table is the script. I know most of it by heart, I'd like to think, seeing as how I know the movie and all of it's extended scenes like I know the back of my hand. But as I flip through it, I realize that it is in fact quite different. There's more going on; more songs, more dialogue, etcetera. I sigh as I leaf through the pages some more and finally toss the packet down onto the table again. I run my hand through my hair, the gel just about dissolved.

It's eight o'clock and I don't know what to do with myself. I purse my lips in thought, one hand coming up to tap them idly. Shrugging, I whip out my cell phone and text Mercedes. She doesn't live nearby at all, but we keep in touch frequently. Some high school friends truly do last forever.

_Hey girl,_ I write, _How was your day?_

A response pops up on the screen within seconds. _Uhg. The worst. That guy I was dating decided to get some elsewhere behind my back since I wasn't putting out. I swear, life is just an extension of high school, with even MORE intense drama! I hate it, Kurt._

I laugh a little at the irony and truth in her statement. _Yeah, well, at least you dumped his ass, right?_

_Oh, you bet your cute white ass I did! What about you, though? How was your day?_

_Can I call you and tell you about it? It's something I think you'd want to hear, Merce._

' _Kay._

I hold down the five key; she's on speed dial, naturally, after Carole and my dad and Finn and my old college roommate, another BFFL (best friend for life). It barely rings before her voice says, "'S up, Kurt?"

"Hi," I reply. "Um, you're not going to believe this, Mercedes. Like, seriously not believe it." I sound both excited and reluctant, and I think she hears both in my tone because she immediately understands.

"Oh, this has to be good. Tell me, tell me! – Wait, did you get the part? Is my angel gonna be Angel?"

I laugh at her calling me her angel. "Well use of a pun, my dear," I answer teasingly. "And yes, I did! But that's not the juicy part. Things only get weirder."

"I'm so happy for you! But what d'ya mean, things get weirder?" she questions, and I can picture the frown on her slim face (she joined a dance group and lost a ton of weight from doing all of its gigs. She's still as voluptuous as ever, but without the excess chub. It's adorable).

"I _mean,_ there was this hot guy there. He plays my better half. He's everything that's my type: manly, brunet, built, and gay. But it's someone we _know,_ Merce. It's someone from McKinley."

" _Get out,"_ she gasps, obviously astounded. "Who, who? You have to tell me who, Kurt! The tension is wearing on me."

I pause for dramatic effect, and I stifle a giggle when she groans in frustration.

"Out with it, boy! Seriously!"

"All right, all right; I'll spill. Don't get your Victoria's Secret undies in a bundle," I joke, smirking. It's always fun to mess with her. "But I'm still in shock about it, and a tad repulsed."

"…Repulsed? God, he must be some ug-mug or nerd or something for you to be grossed out by a hottie," she teases.

I roll my eyes and switch the receiver to the other ear. "No, he was just a chubby jerk." I don't stall any longer. "It's Dave Karofsky."

I yank the cellular device away from my ear as she roars, flabbergasted, into the phone. "NO FUCKING WAYYYY!"

"Yes way," I answer when she's done. "It's him. And believe it or not, he actually has his shit together. I'm impressed, but I can't forget who he used to be to me, and the rest of the school."

"God, I _know._ He's the reason we had to get you a special pass to prom our senior year, even though he'd already graduated by then. Why did you stay at Dalton after he graduated, though? You never told me, and it's been approximately seven years now," Mercedes mutters, and I wince on the other end of the line. I'm not sure I want to tell her.

I sigh heavily. "I got used to Dalton. They were stuck-up, put-you-in-a-box-of-conformity type of arrogant assholes, and I even started to dislike Blaine because he was so condescending, but admittedly, I loved the teachers and the bully-free atmosphere and the fact that there weren't any slushies at the school to throw. So even with Karofsky out of the way, I knew I would never be nearly as accepted at McKinley as I was at Dalton," I confess.

"Wow. I never knew," she murmurs, but a smile soon touches her voice. "Well, anyway. This sounds interesting. How are you going to pull off all those love scenes, now? You said he changed, but no one knows how deep that runs. And what about _you?_ " she asks.

"I'm not following. What _about_ me?" I toss back at her.

"I mean, you're different, too, Kurt. Still have the same confidence, I know, but you're more mature about things now. So how will this affect you?"

I don't want to tell her that it already has, what with me reverting back to my bitchy high school self within minutes of speaking to Karofsky alone. Instead, I make up a white lie. "I don't think it will. I think things will go smoothly as long as he doesn't try to date me."

"…You mean he's _interested_ in you, his former prey?" she says, cracking up. "Oh, that's _richly ironic._ Not to mention a bit creepy."

"Not _creepy,_ per se," I sniff. "Just… uncommon. It was unlikely enough that he and I even met again. And in Chicago, of all places! Why didn't I stay in New York?"

"…Because you hated the smog and over-population and assholes and the giant competition for parts," Mercedes responds immediately, knowing me and my experiences in New York all too well. "Besides, Chicago is nice. You like it there, aside from the winters."

I nod. "True, true," I agree. "But still. Karofsky. I mean… Dave. Him. Yeah, what am I supposed to do with that?"

"I thought you said it was fine as long as he doesn't try dating you," Mercedes counters with evident shrewdness and smirking in her tone.

"…Well…" I hesitate, scuffing one of my socked feet on a cat toy, "Yes, but… uhg. I dunno. It's all just so _awkward."_

"It's only awkward if you make it, hun," she reminds me. "And it's only awkward to you because you find him attractive now, am I right?"

I groan in a whining sort of way. "Mercedes, you've _got_ to stop rummaging through my thoughts. It's like you live to pick my brain or something."

She laughs heartily. "I _knew_ it! You already kind of like him because he looks and acts different, and yet you don't _want_ to like him because of your history with him!" she says in conclusion, as if she'd just figured out the greatest riddle of all time. Or a Rubix cube; there isn't much of a difference between the two.

I grit my teeth agitatedly. "Shut up. That couldn't be further from the truth. I said he was handsome, and it's true, but that doesn't mean I _like_ him."

"Uh-huh," Mercedes pretends to concur with me, but I know she's just playing. The air of a musical undertone to her hum makes it clear to me.

I open my mouth, about to convince her further, when she abruptly cuts me off.

"Anyway, back to the good news. You got the part! You're gonna be Angel! That's so fabulous, Kurt. I'm overjoyed for you. But you better not let this fame get to your head, or I swear I'll knock you down a couple pegs," she warns.

Chuckling, I put her on speaker while I get my cat some food. His dish is empty. "I'll be sure to keep that in mind," I respond idly. A frown adorns my features. "But it doesn't _feel_ as fabulous, seeing as how I now have to practice with Karofsky."

"Him again? Boy, can't you just let things be? It is what it is. Unless he breaks his arm and his understudy fills in for him, you're stuck with him."

Dammit. I hate it when she makes good points. An idea occurs to me, however. I grin wickedly, leaning into my phone while I pour the dry cat food to say slyly, "Now that you mention it, it wouldn't be too difficult to _accidentally_ push him down a flight of stairs, ultimately breaking his leg or his arm or both, and sparing me the trouble of having to work with him… Or, you know, there's always the cursed M-word of theatre."

"Macbeth?"

"Gaspeth, Mercedes! You said it!"

"Yeah, but I'm not in the play, so it's all good," she retorts, thinking herself clever. "And don't go getting any ideas. To be honest, I think this is a great way to settle your leftover high school bullshit," my friend says, and I can just _hear_ the amusement in her voice.

I scowl at her. "Mercedes, I swear, sometimes you are the absolute most infuriating –"

"Oh!" she interjects, her voice startled. "My soon-to-be ex-boyfriend's calling in. Time to go dump that cheating bastard," she remarks with vengeful vigor. Hell hath no fury like a black woman scorned. "Tootles, Kurtie!" she coos, and in seconds all I hear is the fuzzy silence of a deal line.

I sigh as I hang up the phone and toss it aside. I put away the cat food bag, glance at the clock, and suddenly, I feel a worn out and tired as a retired construction worker.

Peeling off my clothes to sleep in my underwear, I curl up in my warm bed and force myself not to make up imaginary possible instances as to what might happen tomorrow. I hate my over-active imagination. I just want to sleep.

Figgles hops up onto the bed and slides up against my back where I lay on my side, a body pillow tucked between my legs. The sound of his purring and soft breathing lulls me into a semi-dreamlike state, and finally, into blissfully unaware slumber.

.o0o.

I slowly blink myself awake, my cat gone from my side and the early morning light nearly blistering my eyes. I wince, and as I stretch – making those bizarre-but-totally-human-and-necessary squeaks and grunts as I do so – I quickly run over my mental to-do list for the day.

First, I wan to look out the window to check the weather I need to know what it's like out there if I want to plan the correct (and fashionable) outfit for it.

Second, I need to shower. Badly. I hate that greasy feeling of all of the oil that rose to my skin over the right.

And third, I need to run some errands. Thank goodness I don't have work today; that would royally suck.

(I don't even want to remotely _think_ about practice at five tonight. Tch. I'm still debating on whether or not I'm excited for or entirely dreading it.)

It's sunny outside, a fresh layer of snow on the sidewalks, the streets already reduced to grayish-brown slush from all of the cabs and busses and other vehicles. If the violent swaying of the trees and blowing of the snow is any indication, then I think it must be best to dress with multiple layers today.

I rush through getting ready, grabbing an untoasted bagel on my way out the door. I glance at the clock; it's just after ten thirty. I stop for my usual coffee, stir up some small talk with Alicia (leaving out having to act with my former high school bully, but including excitedly that I got the part), and proceed to the nearest place of errand-running on my mental list.

I grab the essentials; hair gel, toilet paper, paper towels, lotion, a fresh pack of disposable razors, and the like. I use my debit card, run back out into the bone-scrapingly frigid air, and plow onward to my next location: the dry-cleaner's. I pick up my clothes, tuck them under my arm, and head out again. I get some food from the convenience store near a comic book shop, getting the simple, cheap things like instant noodles (also known as ramen) and some impulse buys (such as sour cream and onion Lays chips). Nothing very healthy, I realize a bit guiltily, so I also purchase some clementines. I adore those cute little seedless oranges.

I spend most of my day like this, bouncing between stores and waving at some passersby who smile at me and my arms full of bags.

Nearing my apartment around three o'clock, I drop off everything, putting away each little item, and I grab something small to eat. By this time, I'm not sure what to do with myself. I make a majority of my money from my miscellaneous gigs (I've sung at coffee shops and little clubs and such) and my part-time job. But on days when I'm not working, I don't know what to do. It's like I have too much free time on my hands.

If I were an artist, I'd spend it drawing. If I were a nerd, I would probably be on the computer doing something as pointless as browsing DeviantART or stalking people on Facebook or Twitter or surfing through Tumblr and LiveJournal communities and forums, or I might even read or write fanfiction. But I am none of these things, and I'm too broke to go shopping as much as I'd like to, and I don't have that many friends here yet.

Sort of makes me miss college. I always had something to do back then; go out with friends, go to a party, smooze people, flirt with cute guys that were questionable in their orientations (such as bisexual or possibly homosexual like myself), and even do homework or a project that was assigned to me. I was part of all of the theatre and singing classes and clubs, and I went to a lot of independent and Hollywood-popular films at the small, student-exclusive theatre built as part of the school.

Always something to do.

But now… well. I never know where to start. Hopefully, Rent will consume my life for a while and I lose some of this free time. It's boring as Hell.

Shrugging on my coat again, I decide to blow time until five by wandering around the city, maybe going to Millennium Park. That Bean statue-thing never ceases to amuse me with the way it warps how people look and at the same time, reflects the entire Chicago skyline. It's especially nice on says like this one, when there's snow on the ground.

Halfway to the park, I take a detour to a quaint little art supply store near Roosevelt University. It looks sleek and modern and even though I can't draw or paint to save my life, the look and feel of art supplies has always drawn me in. Must be the musical artist in me, appreciating other forms of the arts.

As I step into the store, the smell of oil paints and brushes and wood greets my nose, lightly laced with the pungent scent of turpentine. It's like art class in high school all over again, but better.

Smiling minutely to myself, I wander the aisles, admiring all of the various sizes of sketchbooks, ranging to the size of about my foot or hand to something taller and far wider that I am. There are canvases and rows of colored pencils and copic markers and India ink with styluses and calligraphy toppers. I run my hand over some cloth in another aisle, and lightly fan the hairs of a fat brush.

Over in the corner before many of the wood supplies, there's a canvas set up with some acrylics on a pallet beside it, four or five old, used brushes next to it, along with a small jar of water. Grinning, I pick up a brush, rinse it, and select a dark teal hue. I doodle a heart with stitches down the middle beside a rather artistic tree.

Setting the brush down, I turn to leave the store again. But as I move to, an employee in a forest green apron with the store's logo in the corner stops dead and gapes at me. I gape back, and the employee fumbles, nearly dropping a stack of chalk pastels in boxes in his arms.

Slowly, a wry smile touches the edge of my lips. "Fancy that: you work _here_ of all places," I state as I place a hand on my hip, my bag swinging back slightly where it rests against my side. "And here I expected you to be a buss boy at, I dunno, the Cheesecake Factory."

"Actually," he replies a hair sardonically, setting the pastels in their proper place without looking at me, "I _did_ work there, as a waiter, over the summer. I got fired for being a jerk to a group of five snobby Canadian tourists that kept ordering almost every damn thing on the menu."

Ah, so he still has his moments of being a bully. Doesn't surprise me. I roll my eyes. "Gee, Dave, I don't know how much more predictable you can get."

He finally looks at me, his dark russet orbs burrowing into mine. "And I don't know how much more _unpredictable_ you can get," he counter smoothly. He takes a step forward, dusting some of fallen pastel dust from his apron. "What are you doing here?"

"It looked inviting," I reply indignantly.

He grins what can only be described as ruefully. "Damn. And here I was hoping you were doing the flattering thing and either stalking me or waiting for my shift to end."

I frown at this. "There are two problems with that theory: one, I am not at all skilled in stalking, nor do I care to ever dabble in it, and two, you never told me where you worked, so how was I supposed to know to wait here for your shift to end?"

He shrugs, dismissing my tone. "By stalking me, of course," he replies, and there's that other smile again, the one that might just so happen to be flirtatious. I shake the feeling off with a roll of my shoulders and my hand to my bag.

"Your hopes are too high," I say stiffly. I move to walk past him to exit the store, but he catches me by the strap of my bag as I pass.

"And what's wrong with that?" he questions with a slight edge to his voice. His face softens a second later, his hand releasing my possession. He sighs through his nose, one hand rubbing a temple. "Sorry. I didn't mean it to come out that way."

I send him a puzzled look. What had just happened there? I honestly don't know if that was meant to be a slight reversion to his old self or…

His voice distracts me. "Anyway. Where are you headed? Maybe we don't have to meet at Barnes and Noble after all."

I blink to focus. "Er, the park just across the street. I was going to look at some of the sculptures again. I don't have much money for a museum visit, and I'm bored, and for once, the sun is actually out, so I thought I might as well enjoy it while I can."

He nods, as if he's done the same thing before. Maybe he has. "Okay. Do you mind if I joined you in an hour and a half, then?"

I purse my lips in thought, one finger tapping the seam of them. I take notice in the back of my mind that Karofsky's eyes are tracking the movement, his brows relaxing again. "Sure, I guess," I say at last, giving a twitch in my left shoulder as a half-shrug. "We can go through the script someplace else, though. It's too cold to stand out there forever. Hell, I might retreat to warmth now and go out there later to meet you," I add absentmindedly. I wave it aside with one hand. "Anyway. By the Bean?"

Dave offers another brief nod. "Yeah, that works. See you soon, then."

Soon. Right.

(I ignore the uncomfortable air between us as I wave goodbye and leave. Again, I ask myself: why did it have to be _him?_ )

.o0o.

"Kurt!" someone says, grabbing my attention with a none-too-subtle holler. It's dark outside, now, since December brings with it a sun that sets at, like, four-forty or so.

I whirl around just as teeny little flakes begin to cascade from the sky. I glance up, not at all having noticed the rush of thin clouds that came with the wind to cover my sunny day just as the sun had gone down.

Dave Karofsky jogs over to where I stand before the looming, reflective Bean. His breath is coming out in short bursts, the puffs of white air in the streetlamp light looking like tiny snow clouds. I smile a bit despite myself. (Curse me for finding his current appearance appealing!)

"Hey," he says, his voice not breathless but his chest rising and falling more than normal under his thick coat.

"Hey," I return, adverting my gaze. "So," I start cautiously, "Where should we go?"

I can hear the smile in his voice, even though I'm looking out at the falling wisps of dandruff-like snow.

"Well, there's always one of our apartments," he offers, and I _know_ that it's meant to be suggestive, even if his tone sounds entirely innocent. I want to smack him on the arm for even bringing one of those locations up.

"Certainly not!" I retort.

He chuckles mildly. "Don't be such a _girl,_ Kurt. I didn't mean it like that. It's just someplace familiar for either of us and someplace _warm._ And someplace where the whole world won't get spoilers for Rent."

There he goes, making inarguable points again. Fuck. I hate that this adult version of Dave is actually intelligent and knows how to flip around half of the things I say. It's irritating. (And no, it's not at all fresh and interesting and alluring. It can't be that. Why would having witty banter with this guy be any of those things?)

" _Fine,_ " I growl, "But it's going to be _my_ apartment, because I want the home-field advantage of knowing where the exits are."

Dave laughs again, his eyes sparkling. No, wait, that must be the lighting. That's all. "You know, I kind of knew you'd say something like that. You haven't changed much, Kurt."

Actually, I _have_ changed, but you being _you_ makes me like how I was. Or something. I never took psychology, so I won't even pretend to understand what the Hell is going on here.

"You place it is, then," he says, gesturing toward the street. "Lead the way."

"Do you even have your script on you?" I ask, narrowing my eyes at him.

"No worries," Dave remarks. He pats his chest, and I can hear the crinkle of thick paper. "It's in a pocket in here."

I sigh and start walking. "Okay, then. Let's go."

On the way, it's mostly silent between us. Then, "Kurt, where do you work?"

"Why, are you trying to stalk me like you accused me of doing?" I answer with a bored voice.

"Naw, nothing like that. I was just curious, since you seemed to detest it when you brought up your hours when we re-met."

I make a huffing noise. "I _do_ hate it." I pause, waiting for a pedestrian walking signal to light up. Cars whiz by over the crosswalk before us. "I work at a Walgreens. I fucking hate that store, but it was the only place hiring with decent hours and benefits at the time. I mostly stock shelves, go in back to get stuff, and sometimes work the register. It's redundant and I get nothing but a serving of crazy, weird, old people in there. Occasionally there's a young mother with screaming child on the side, but the near-daily dose is the same." I make a passing growl just as the signal changes, and we start walking again.

To his credit, Karofsky doesn't mock me. He simply nods. "Yeah, when I was starting out, I worked at a MacDonald's." He grimaces when I glance sideways at him. "Worst. Job. On. The. _Planet._ "

I giggle. (Wait, _giggle?_ At something _Karofsky_ is saying?) "Yes, I'd imagine so. I personally made it a rule to never work at a food joint, especially not one I ever eat from. It's just wrong."

"At least we agree on some things, Hummel." And he smiles at me again. In that warm, flirty way.

I glance back at the path ahead of us. It's dusted with snow, the breeze non-existent where we are between the skyscrapers. I turn a corner, and Dave follows closely behind. Too close. I stop, my body tense with some emotion I can't place, and Dave bumps into me.

"What, are we here already?" he poses, purposely backing away from me as soon as he made contact.

I swallow, wet my dry lips, and shake my head. "No. Sorry. I thought I saw something," I lie, and continue walking. Dave doesn't follow as closely any longer, and relief spreads through me. I don't know if it's the history between us that makes me distrust him, or the annoyingly nagging attraction I'm developing, or even a combination of the two conflicting within me, but it keeps me on edge when I'm around him.

I fear how this will affect our soon-to-be first practice, and later, our rehearsals at the theatre, together. It unnerves me and sends shivers down my spine. I'll have to dance with him, I realize. And stage-kiss him.

I grow cold, something lighting up in the pit of my belly.

A _kiss._ A damn kiss is what started this whole mess, if I think about it. He was always a locker-shover and name-caller and slushier before that kiss in the locker room, and then all of the things that followed; the death threat, the wink, the stroke down my chest, the taking of my wedding topper, the meeting in Sue Sylvester's office, the expulsion, the avoidance, and once, a brief run-in at a mall just before college. I had seen him, but he hadn't seen me at first, and then when he had, he made a weird expression I still can't figure out before brushing purposely past me without looking back.

I freeze again as we approach my apartment complex. The building looks like a safe haven all of a sudden.

"Well, uh, here we are," I state casually.

Dave whistles. "Wow. Nice place. Couldda done better myself, now that I think about it."

"Whatever," I mutter under my breath. Let's just get this over with, I'm tempted to add, but I hold my tongue. We step in, and I take the stairs two at a time until we reach my door on the sixth level. I unlock the door, my cat meows, and we step onto the threshold. I still my breath for a moment.

Dave grins as he walks in past me and takes a quick overview of my mild décor (Ikea stuff; it would look nicer had I possessed more money to use) and nodding his approval. "I expected no less of you, Kurt. This is classy."

And my breath is released, and as I shut the door behind me, I know this is going to be the longest hour (and probably extended past said time limit) of my life.


	3. Chaotically

"Think we should put on the movie as a reference?" I pose, walking over to my fridge (another hand-me-down appliance like my television) to get myself some water. I remember my manners and ask Dave if he wants something to drink. He waves it aside, claiming not to be thirsty.

"I think the movie helps with a bit of the imagery, yes," he agrees tonelessly. "For the non-directed actions in the script, anyhow. But you're can't mimic it too much; you have to throw in your own flair and moves." And he grins at the word 'moves,' and I shudder to think why.

Lazily, I mosey on over to my DVD player and slip the disc in. I select the scenes we need, the two of us standing in the living room, checking for similarities to follow in the script while simultaneously brainstorming ideas silently to ourselves about how to go about our parts.

I notice, however, that Dave's not concentrating nearly as hard as I am. Mainly to glance at my cat, I peer over at him, and find him watching me. As soon as our eyes connect, he looks away, down at my cat weaving between his legs.

"She likes me," he smiles, eager for a distraction. The film continues, but we aren't focusing on it any longer. "Normally I'm not a cat person – I like dogs – but your cat is kinda irresistible." He bites his tongue, and I wonder vaguely if he had been about to add, 'like you.' But that might be my wishful thinking. (Wait, why am I wishing that? …It must be because I'm such an attention whore.)

"It's a 'he,'" I correct with a smile. I crouch down – careful not to get too close to my guest's body – and pick up Figgles. "And I don't know _why_ he would like you; you're _so_ not his type," I say, and a small voice in the back of my head plucks at my brain, insisting that I'm not only referring to the cat, but to myself as well. I hastily shove the slithering thought away as I hand my pet over to Dave's arms. A piece of me worries he might hurt it, but I try to remind myself that Dave wouldn't do that, he's not quite the bully he formerly was.

"Aww," Dave says sarcastically, "He has your father's eyes."

"Shut up," I retort, an unexplainable flush coating my cheeks. I brush a hand over my face to cool it. "We should get working. We haven't done much, and you've been here for, like, half an hour now."

"Are we limited to merely sixty minutes?" he murmurs, nonchalantly scratching my cat's head and behind its ears.

I suppress the urge to utter something I might get heat for. Instead, I respond slowly, "No, not necessarily…" I purse my lips again in thought, and Dave's eyes flicker once again to my mouth. Back at my eyes, he waits for me to finish. "I guess it's not so bad if we need more time. It's not like I have anything else I need to do, like you probably assumed by my boredom earlier today."

He chuckles shortly in reply. "I hoped so. But you know, my offer still stands to go out to eat afterward. They have some great Italian food places around here."

My stomach growls lightly at the notion. Deep-dish pizza happens to be one of my favorite things about Chicago. But going out to dinner on what is technically a date with Karofsky? That notion I am not as fond of. But… some pizza would be _so_ good after exhausting myself over lines…

I sigh, inevitably yielding to his oddly powerful (over my rumbling tummy, at least) offer. "Yeah, all right. Except this isn't a date, got it? I'll pay for myself. I'm just craving deep-dish pizza."

I think he's aware that I'm only chalking up my reasoning to be hunger when in fact a tiny piece of it is to spend more time with him. While I still refuse to trust or befriend him, it's true that I'm curious to witness more of his changed self.

"Awesome," he remarks, and sets my kitty onto the floor again. "So, want to read some lines back and forth?"

"Read or _sing_?" I rephrase. "This _is_ a musical, after all. Half of the dialogue is sung."

"Good point," Dave amends with a single nod. "Sing, then. Like… 'I'll Cover You'?" he asks. And I refrain from rolling my eyes at how eager he looks. Honestly, he's got to stop shamelessly hitting on me. I get it; he's interested. Fine, whatever. His feelings never left or something. He wants to start over. I get the message! It doesn't mean I entirely want to cooperate. I just _have_ to because of the play, I tell myself. But it feels as green and fuzzy as a log of moss in my gut. (That's how lies feel, if you didn't already know. At least, that's how I see them.)

"Sure," I reply as I stop the movie in the background. I'm only agreeing because we both know this is our biggest number together, so the more practice we have on it throughout all the time before the play, the better. It needs to be flawless.

Angel opens the song, so, naturally, I'm the first to sing.

A tad nervously, I begin (not even glancing at the script since I know the song by heart), " _Live in my house, I'll be your shelter; just pay be back with one thousand kisses… Be my lover, I'll cover you…"_ My voice is a hair too low for my tastes, but Dave looks mind-blown.

He clears his throat, trying to hide a blush I think, and enters the currently music-less song. " _Open your door, I'll be your tenant,_ " he begins shakily, but quickly gaining confidence. I blink in surprise, realizing that his voice is silky and rich in sound, and I'm mortified to admit, but a bit of a turn-on. " _Don't got much baggage to lay at your feet. But sweet kisses I've got to spare… I'll be there, and I'll cover you~."_

My heart speeds up in the slightest. Together, our singing voices mingle in a way I hadn't thought possible, and even though this is our first time attempting a harmony, it's undeniably _magical._

" _I think they meant it, when they said you can't buy love; now I know you can rent it, a new lease you are my love… my life, be my life~… Just slip me on, I'll be your blanket; wherever, whatever, I'll be your coat."_

I can't believe this. We actually are perfect for this, at least that's how it sounds to me. How do directors do it, when they never see people work together, and yet they select them and somehow _know_ it will all work out? Crazy. Simply crazy.

I smile as I sing solo again with, " _You'll be my king, and I'll be your castle –"_

" _No, you'll be my queen, and I'll be your moat,"_ he counters, smiling as well. I think he has the same amusement I do in the two metaphors.

Once again we've reached a point we must sing together, and my ears suddenly long to hear it. I absorbs the chime of our mixed sound as we harmonize, " _I think they meant it, when they said you can't buy love; now I know you can rent it, a new lease you are my love… my life… All my life~!"_ We pause, then: " _I've longer to discover something as true as this is…"_ and it's onto Dave for a moment, and I sit back, observing, listening, and admiring.

" _So with a thousand sweet kisses~, I will cover you –"_

It's my turn now, the part where we bounce lyrics off of one another. I sing, " _If you're cold and you're lonely…"_

" _With a thousand sweet kisses~, I will cover you –"_

I almost don't want to finish the song; this is too much. It feels impossible, and I never even considered it probable, to be singing with _Karofsky_ of all people, and actually sounding _remarkable_. I feel my fingers quake with shock and excitement as a new type of electricity spikes through my nerves.

At the same time, I don't want this to end. Singing is my passion, my one true joy, my ultimate career. And to be doing it with someone else, and for something as grand as a Broadway musical…

The full force of the situation impacts me suddenly, and my voice falls short, just before I have to sing once again to overlap the man in front of me.

Dave drifts off, looking at me. "Something wrong?" he mutters with a barely visible tilt of his head. "Why'd you stop?"

Unlike Blaine's superficial care, I take note that Dave is genuinely curious over why I'm no longer participating.

I inhale shallowly. "I just… realized something, that's all," I mutter quietly, shaking my head to wave off the situation. I offer a weak smile. "Let's stop there for now, okay? We don't want to overdo it the first time we attempt the song."

"Oh… um, okay, then." There's a pause, as if time has slowed to creep to a snail's pace. Seemingly out of nowhere, a devious grin overtakes Dave's face. "Should we try dancing instead?"

Oh, now he's just trying too hard to get closer to me. I frown. " _No._ "

"Why not?"

I hesitate, trying to think of a legitimate reason. Not a one comes to mind. Dammit. I sigh, "I guess I have no reason."

"Is it because you don't want to be remotely intimate with me? Is that it?" Dave comments, and his tone is low and almost pained, his expression unreadable. If this had been back in high school, he would have sounded angry, defensive. He would have been the definition of intimidating.

I take a half-step back as a reflex. "No, no, it's not… _that…_ I mean, we have to be quasi-intimate anyhow, because of our characters…" I fumble with my words the way a pre-pubescent child might fumble with how to throw or catch a football. "It's just… uh…"

Dave takes two steps closer, reducing the space between us to just under a foot. I suddenly can't breathe as well as I was able to milliseconds ago. "Then what is it, exactly?" he utters softly, clearly offended.

I blink. I nibble my bottom lip. Then, without saying a word, I offer my hands. He takes them, and something feels out-of-place, like a time paradox sending me back to my parents' wedding when I felt bubbly as I danced with Finn; not the same sort of bubbliness as this instant, though; back then, I hadn't crushed on Finn in a while, so the happiness I felt was a sort of awe, a sort of warmth that comes with newfound friendship (or, in our case, brotherhood). This time, though, I feel…

Something. I have no clue as to what, but it's not easily ignored.

My partner leads, naturally, and I follow. I find that I've gained the last two inches or so on him from our high school days; we're precisely the same height now. We do a few moves around one another, trying to keep up, and I randomly picture koi fish. Our pace picks up, and a small laugh escapes me as Dave goes over-the-top, throwing me out on one arm before twirling me back, like a yo-yo. He drops me down, my back resting against his thigh.

If we had never met before this week, this would have been awkward. If we had actually been friends or dated in high school, this would be silly and friendly.

But as he has me linger nearly nose-to-nose with him for a few seconds too long, the sexual tension I hadn't recognized in high school but know all too well now that I'm older suddenly becomes as thick and solid in the air between us that one could cut it with a knife.

He yanks me back up to my feet, tucking me against his chest.

"David Karofsky," I playfully admonish, my words breathless, "Are you trying to woo me?"

"That depends," he answers, swinging me around and sidestepping with my back against his chest.

My heart races. "What on?" I whisper.

His breath is in my ear, sending shivers down my spine. He releases me, a funny, lop-sided smile on his face that reminds me of my step-brother's, only slyer and showing a sliver of tooth as opposed to Finn's closed lips. "On whether or not it's working."

Okay, I'll admit it: Karofsky has most definitely been working on his charm factor over the past few years. And it's damn effective. _Whyyyy_ does it have to be so effective?

I offer a smile of my own. "It might be. In fact, it might have worked enough that I'm going to permit you to pay for my dinner."

"Like a date?" he says with a hint of hope, but there is mostly a sort of dubious undertone to his voice, as if he doesn't believe me. To top it off, he crosses his arms over his chest.

"Yes, like a date," I say, barely believing the words myself. "So what are you waiting for, Dave? Grab your coat and let's go eat. You can attempt to woo me further with your wit and a brief catch-up on what you've been up to since high school, and how in the hell you managed to become…" I puzzle over how to describe him. I shrug. "Well, like _this._ Calmer, more open with your sexuality, a bit more intellectual… etcetera."

"Hummel, you've always been a pushy, wordy bastard," he retorts with a chuckle. "But you're right. Let's go. And you know, it's not what you think, really. But I'll get to that after we have food in frnt of us."

"Smart choice," I agree with a nod. "Because honestly, I can't think or respond as well on an empty stomach."

"I don't think anyone can. Not on little sleep, either," he adds. (I assume from his own experience with concentrating while delirious from lack of sleep.)

And so we're off, this evening slowly turning into the strangest I've had in a long while, this is also one of the most thrilling and intriguing I've had in an even longer time. I'm smiling despite myself, I'm eager when I don't want to be, and it's like I'm finally putting pieces together that I've been missing: being in a play, having someone to work with on what I know will turn into a near-daily basis, and possibly building a relationship stronger than chatting it up with Alicia at Starbucks or occasionally visiting and often talking on the phone with Mercedes.

.o0o.

When we're finally seated at the popular pizza joint, the first thing Dave orders is an iced tea with lemonade. I had expected a dark soda of some sort, so when I make the remark, Dave retorts, "I'm trying to cut back on the soda. I recently got another cavity, and let me tell you, one of the things I hate most in the world is getting my teeth drilled into for fillings. I did it a few times as a kid and a teen and I fucking _despise_ it. So if drinking less pop and brushing my teeth a little more spares me the trouble, I'll gladly do it."

I smile. "Yeah, I can understand that. No one really likes dentists, huh?"

"Nope. They even have the highest suicide rate for community-based professions." My eyes widen, and Dave suddenly sputters. "Fuck. Did I just say that? I'm such an idiot. Pretend you didn't hear me blurt that out." He shakes his head at himself. As if to brush off his inappropriate dinner conversation, he offers, "I blame my sociology teacher from college. He taught us that."

"You took sociology?" I say to change the subject to something safer than suicidal dentists.

"…Yeah," Dave says, and I think he might be relieved for the change of subject. "Psychology, too. I wanted to see if I could figure myself out, since I was still kinda… okay, more than kinda. I was extremely confused with myself. I dug myself into this deep hole and even extended it into a rut until I was trapped in this… muddy pit of bullying, hiding myself and others from my sexual orientation, and taking out all of my frustration and self-loathing on others in multiple ways. So… I dunno, I decided it was time to grow up. In my sophomore year of college, I took those two classes."

Our drinks arrive, and while I sip at a strawberry daiquiri (I made sure to ask for a half-shot; I don't really want the alcohol, only the cool, fruity sweetness), I inquire, "And did they help?"

Slowly, he nods around a slurp of his own drink. "Yeah. After a year of studying things like mob mentality, counter-culture, dreams, and mental disorders, I came to a conclusion."

"And what was that?" I prod. I can tell that it's not easy for him to open up to me, and I don't blame him. But I think the fact that there used to be a link between us in the past helps push us along now, despite the fact that said link had been negative.

He nods firmly. "I realized that all I needed to do was talk to someone. If I let it all out, I could start accepting myself and breaking the chain I made for myself, start to dig my way back out of the rut." He smiles at his own clever metaphors. "I wound up joining one of those therapy circles for depressed people. I made sure it wasn't an openly gay one, merely a depression one. But I met a girl who was terrified of telling her parents that she was a lesbian, and so she turned to cutting herself to punish herself for her feelings. I was the opposite of her in how I reacted – I lashed out on others instead of myself – but the fear was the same. She and I would stay after the sessions sometimes to talk quietly, politely, to each other. Sometimes one of the therapists would join in. it was… freeing," he finishes, and takes a long drink of his beverage.

"Wow, Dave," I murmur, in utter awe with him. "You did all this by yourself?"

He grins ironically. "I know what you're thinking, Kurt; you always had me pegged as a bully and a coward, and you were right. I was that way. But in college, I found that people are a lot less judgmental than in high school, and almost everybody gets along, even if they don't know each other at all. Lima was just too small. I went to school in Michigan, and discovered that, well… things get better, you know? I met some really good people that helped break me out of that stupid dumb-jock shell. One girl got me reading, actually. She said that books are the best coping mechanisms. She was right."

I've never heard him speak so much at one time before. But I'm beginning to grasp the concept; he went through a process of trial and error, of losing and finding, and lots and lots of mental dispensation of all of the information. And in the end, the final result is this man across the table from me.

I reach over and lightly touch his fingers on his glass. He glances up from his lap to look me in the eye, at my fingers when I retract them, and then back at my eyes.

"'Inspirational' is not something I thought I could ever associate with a Neanderthal, but you've proven me wrong, Dave. You were just keeping a better version of yourself locked up inside because you fell into a bad crowd and an even worse state of mind."

"Once again, you say just the right things," he mumbles, but a smile is on his face.

Our waitress comes back in this moment, asking us if we're ready to order. We are. We decide to share the smallest size of their deep-dish pizzas, a spinach-cheese one. I'm surprised he didn't request sausage or pepperoni or something meatier, but Dave apparently likes any flavor of pizza, and doesn't mind that I chose what I did.

We wind up sharing a few laughs, talking about people from our awkward years. "Remember Noah Puckerman?"

"How could I forget? He was everywhere. In Glee Club, in the athletic department, in juvie…"

"Haha, yeah… I wonder what ever happened to him after he graduated?"

"Who knows? Maybe he's a mechanic right now. Or in prison."

"Your outlook is so gloomy, Karofsky! He could be married with kids and working a corporate job right now."

"Or he could be working a double-shift blue-collar job, trying to make ends meet for his kids after his wife left him."

"…You're just… horrible!"

"Oh, you _say_ that, but right now you're laughing, Hummel."

"…Well, it is a little funny. But I have high hopes for Puck. I think he might be doing well right now, since Artie told me later that juvie scared Puck straight. He hasn't done anything worse than a fist-fight since. Or, at least, since I last _heard_ anything."

"You are such a gossip queen, Kurt."

"Shut up~."

And so it goes. We exchange witty banter back and forth for the longest time, sometimes choking on a bite of pizza when the other says something especially chuckle-worthy.

And before I know it, I realize something a bit scary: I could really learn to like Dave. We could be great friends, and through this whole Rent thing, we might actually be able to pull off an epic production.

We wind up taking doggie bags of the remaining four slices of pizza, the "small" we shared actually pretty big and filling. Once we step out of the restaurant, we stare at one another, unsure where to go from here.

"So… I'll see you at rehearsal starting Friday?" Dave starts, his thumb idly flapping the lip of the foam box containing his two slices of deep-dish.

"Yes. Maybe even sooner, if you'd, you know, like to," I mutter, my face feeling warm. But that's just the sting of the icy air, I'm sure of it.

He grins. "I'd love to. When?"

"Tomorrow and Thursday are open, obviously," I say. "Aside from work, I can see you… whenever. We can go through the script again, to be prepared for Friday."

"Yeah, okay," he agrees, stiffly sucking in air. I vaguely wonder if his heart is beginning to pound as loudly as my own in his ears. "Sounds good. I'll see you when I get off at five again, if you don't mind. Your place? Or would you like to see mine?"

I laugh. "Well, I showed you mine, so naturally you have to show me yours," I reply, and dear _Godga,_ did I just slip an innuendo into my speech? _Ahrg! Stupid Kurt! Bad, bad, bad,_ I mentally punish myself with an imaginary slap to my own face. I force a smile to cover up my thoughts.

Dave's sending me an odd look, but not an unpleasant one. He abruptly smiles. "Naturally," he agrees. "So. Thursday, then? To keep the lines fresh for Friday?"

"Thursday," I nod.

"Right. So… goodbye," he says, and I have no idea if it's my innuendo's fault for turning this into one of the most uncomfortable departures ever, or if it's simply the reluctance one or both of us feel toward the parting. Either way, I rub the back of my neck with my free hand and finally mutter my own goodbye before we both turn and walk opposite ways back to our living quarters.

As I unlock my apartment door, I drop my keys on the counter and shrug off my coat. I exhale lethargically, and plop down onto my bed after I kick off my shoes in my bedroom.

Figgles is asleep between the two pillows on my full-sized bed. I unconsciously reach behind me to pet his head and run my fingertips over his ears. He nuzzles me, then returns to sleep.

"Did… all of that really just happen?" I mumble to myself, my eyes staring off into space dreamily. Stumbling across Dave's workplace, watching parts of Rent with him, _singing_ with him, and going out to dinner? All with the guy who bullied me in the past?

I shake my head. This is crazy-impossible-complicated, but so completely like the randomosity of life that I can somewhat believe in.

I flop backward onto my bed, arms spread wide, legs folding at the ankles. I stare up at the ceiling, feel too tired to get undressed, and end up doing what I almost never do as a fashionista since it wrinkles my clothes: I fall asleep in the clothing I wore all day.


	4. Incidentally

I can't help it. Come Thursday, I'm a jittery, nervous wreck while at work. I shuffle aisle to aisle at the corner Walgreens nearest my apartment, stacking various candies and make-up items and toiletries onto the shelves. When it's my turn for register duty near the end of my shift, I'm sitting there trying to look at an _Entertainment Weekly_ magazine when a customer suddenly shows up on the other side of the counter.

"Ahem," they grunt, clearing their throat, and the sound is distinctly male. I glance up, my entire body tensing when I look at their face. They smile. "Can I buy this pack of gum or what?"

I blink. "Uh… sure," I say, a smile growing on my own face. I scan it, ask cash or credit, and he hands me a five-dollar bill. Handing him the change, our fingers brush, one of my nails raking lightly over the skin of his palm.

"Thanks," he says, and then glances at his watch. "Is your shift over yet?"

I laugh. "In exactly three minutes it will be." I lean forward and place my elbow on the counter beside the register, my chin in my hand. "So. Are you going to lead the way?"

"I have to. It's not like I told you my address," he reminds, and I notice him idly rub his hand over his jaw. "This feels weird."

I shrug. "I like it. Your stubble was rugged and manly and all, but I'm not a big fan of face fuzz." I wrinkle my nose. "Although, your cleanly-shaven face does bring back memories."

He visibly cringes. "Yeah, I know. Ones we'd both rather forget. But still…" He touches his own face again, his eyes locking with mine as his hand falls. "Fresh start and all that, right?"

I smile. "Right." I glance at the clock on a nearby wall. "Aaannddd…" I sound out slowly, "There! My shift's over. Time to get the Hell out of this dreaded store." And I remove my employee's vest, motioning for my companion to follow me.

Dave follows without a word, not even flinching when he moves past the doors labeled "employees only." I always used to see these doors as potential forbidden territory, as if I would get arrested for moving beyond them as a customer and not an employee. But apparently Dave feels like he has an excuse, a "pass" of sorts, by being with me.

I hang up my vest, sign out on a sheet, and grab my coat. I turn back to my… friend? I suppose it's safe to call him that now. I smile again at him. "Let's go," I say, gesturing toward the doors, and we soon pass through the store and out into the brisk winter air.

The city smells of exhaust and snow, and I don't even pay attention to the fresh layer of white fluff covering the ground. It _is_ December, after all. More snow comes as no surprise.

While we walk, I adorn my sleek black gloves, courtesy of Carole last Christmas. They're those expensive isotoner gloves, the ones with real leather (poor cows!) on the palms and fingers, but with sturdy nylon and taunt silk holding it all together and stretching across the back. They feel lovely, and have this nice fuzzy liner on the inside.

But I wish I hadn't forgotten my scarf. To make up for it, I zip my wooly coat up further and flip up the collar, my chin sinking down into the reflected warmth of my own body.

Dave glances over at me where he walks by my side. "Kurt? Are you too cold?"

"…J-just a little," I admit, my teeth chattering lightly. "It w-wasn't this c-cold when I st-started work, s-so I left my sc-scarf at home."

His eyes seem to soften, taking pity on me. He unwinds his own scarf and holds it out to me. "Want mine? I'm too hot with it on, anyhow."

I can't tell if he's lying to make me feel better or if he means it, but either way, I accept the offering. I coil the soft cloth around my neck and tuck it into my coat to leave out any cracks that could let the cold in. And I must say, it does the trick. (It also smells heavenly; I inhale deeply, the scarf smelling of spicy citrus and masculine musk and wood smoke.)

"Do you have a fireplace?" I ask out of the blue.

He frowns, puzzling over my question. "Yeah, a really tiny one in the living room of my apartment. How'd you know?"

I smile beneath the cover of the scarf. "It smells like wood smoke. Your scarf, I mean."

Dave laughs a bit, turning a corner, and I follow. We walk past the beginnings of the set up for the German Winterfest in the square of State and Washington streets, the giant pine tree already being set up in the near-center of where all of the little stands and booths and huts will soon be. When I saw Wicked, we stopped here on the way back to our hotel, and I bought a cute ornament for our tree back home of a Hansel and Gretel-inspires gingerbread house, complete with a small witch standing outside of it. It was made of clay and various sizes of flat glass marbles. I still have it.

"Hey," Dave points, "That looks like a blast. I never gone to it, but I heard it's awesome, especially the week of Christmas. I hear tell, too, that they have the best hot cocoa ever, made with real German chocolates."

I snort. "Psh, their hot cocoa doesn't compare to the recipe Carole and I found. The one _we_ make uses milk and cocoa powder and sugar and chocolate chips and cinnamon and ground star anise and a dash of ginger," I say proudly. "It's extremely chocolaty and sweet and damn near impossible to finish one full glass of, but it's the best damn hot chocolate you will ever taste, I guarantee it."

"That so?" Dave inquires with a smirk. "Well, if that's any invitation for you to make it for me, then I gladly accept."

I flush a shade pinker than what the cold is already making me. Did I just get myself into another miniature date? Dammit. I got to stop doing that. "Er, okay."

He smiles, and as we cross a street, he murmurs, "You know, I met this girl at the art store I work at who is part of the setup for that Winterfest thing. She said that she used to go to it almost every year as a teenager with her family and aunt and uncle, and that back in 2010, this huge pine tree on an empty – but recently sold – lot was being hacked down in her hometown and carted off in a truck somewhere. She returned to the Winterfest that same year, and sure enough, there was that exact same tree. She could tell by its shape, where it was missing some branches and pine needles and how tall it was. She said it was a real honor. And I thought to myself, 'All that fuss over some tree?' But I guess it's idea of being a part of something bigger because of something you know that is what's important."

I gape at him once he finishes talking, a little awed yet again by his maturity level. If you were to tell me that David Karofsky, the big, bad bully of McKinley would act like this in about ten years from the time I knew him, I would have thought you were as insane as the women I used to watch and shake my head at on _What Not To Wear._ But here I am, and here he is, and I like it. I don't know if he's just trying to impress me, but it's working.

"That's… very intuitive of you, David," I remark with a miniature smile. "You read that much out of a simple conversation with someone."

He shrugs. "Yeah, well. She started it. She was buying supplies to decorate the square with, and she was super chatty. She was one of those artsy-fartsy girls who were probably outcasts in high school and blossomed during and after college. She looked like she might have been heavier at some point, too, like myself. I could tell by the way she walked."

"You can tell that by how someone walks?" I question, this new piece of information intriguing to me.

He nods. "Of course. Think about it: when you weigh more, you walk different. Heavier, with louder steps. You also sway your hips and shoulders a bit more because of the shift in weight, like… like a pendulum, all that weight near the bottom making it move farther to each side. She walked like that, even though she was pretty much perfectly proportional." He makes an amused expression. "Well, except for her boobs. She had fuckin' _huge_ breasts, like, unnaturally so. Since I used to pretend to be straight, I got used to looking, and I still notice sometimes. She was a definitely a D-cup."

This makes me laugh. I giggle into a gloved hand, and watch as Dave approaches the entrance of a building.

"Well, here we are." He plows in through the doors, making his way over to an elevator. Since I'm only on the sixth story and don't mind the exercise, I usually take the stairs. I veer over from the staircase to the elevator with a questioning look on my face. Dave shrugs. "I live on the twelfth floor. I doubt you want to climb twice as many stairs as we did at your place," he informs me.

My mouth tightens into a frown. "Um, yeah. No thanks." And I join him in the elevator.

I hate elevators, though. It's not that I'm afraid of their lines suddenly snapping and the entire box falling down the shaft like they do in movies or anything. No, instead, I just hate the awkward air between whoever is inside the damned box, because while the dumb elevator music plays (why can't it evener be a radio or CD instead of the bizarre classical-like music they use?), all you can think of is if you should talk to the other person. The ride is too short for a full conversation, so you always wonder if it's worth it at all. That least, this is how I feel.

There is a pinging sound, and the movement stops. That heady, unbalanced equilibrium feeling overtakes me as the doors part, letting us out. I stumble forward, and somehow manage to trip on the lip of the elevator where it meets the floor of the destination level.

Dave catches my elbow. "Ooh, watch it. There's a bit of a step there. Sorry for not warning you," he mutters apologetically.

I remove my arm form his hold and straighten myself. "You didn't tell me on purpose, hoping I would trip and fall into your arms," I tease, a playful grin on my face.

He mocks shock. "You caught me!" he says, hands raised. Then he simply laughs, shaking his head. "I swear, Kurt, you over-analyze things."

"And it's saved me life over a dozen times, I'll have you know!" I retort pompously, jabbing a finger in the air in front of him. But my features soon soften again. "Anyway, which one is yours?"

"Number eight-hundred thirteen," he says, gesturing to the apartment with brass numbers in the top center of the dark wood.

My eyes widen. "Whoa. Are there really that many apartments in this building?"

"Probably not," Dave replies with a shrug as he gets out his keys and inserts one into the lock. "There's another building next door to this one with more apartments, so who knows where this one's numbers begin?"

I let the topic drop as he steps aside, the door opening up for me. He reaches around and flicks on the light.

"Make yourself at home. It isn't much, and not as nicely decorated or as clean as yours, but it's home to me," he remarks, and do I detect a hint of embarrassment in his tone?

I step inside, my eyes taking in the atmosphere around me. The place smells like Dave's scarf, only stronger, and vaguely of food (Mexican? Chinese?). I take a few steps further, looking around. Most of the furniture is mix-matched, according to what I see just under the skirt of his caramel-colored suede fabric covers. The rest is plain wood, stained red to match the red throw pillows on the couch and loveseat. There are one or two photographs on a few surfaces, the pictures containing people I don't recognize save for Paul Karofsky, a man I met only once. There aren't any trinkets, like my own home; no vases, no artworks, no little statues or potted plants.

It's a humble abode, but a cute one. Dave has some sense of interior decorating, at least; his colors coordinate and he doesn't make things as cluttered as I used to. I half-turn, peering over my shoulder at him as I give him a thumbs-up. "I like it."

He seems pleased with this response, and automatically turns to his kitchenette. "Would you like something to drink? Eat?"

I swallow, suddenly realizing that I'm parched. "Yes, please; some water would be nice."

He retrieves me a bottle and for himself, pops a piece of the gum he bought from me into his mouth. "So," Dave starts, mindful to lock his front door before we proceed, "How would you like to start?"

I produce my copy of the script from my inner coat pocket. "Ummm, let's see here…" I page through the scenes and lists of dialogue. "Why not with where each of us enters the story?"

"Alright," he agrees, and from here, everything turns into a sort of blur.

We run through the script, marking things with highlighters and pens about what scenes includes our characters (which is many of them), and where we sing (which is often). And then we come to the part I dread each time I watch the film, and each time I read through my lines.

Tears prickle in the back of my eyes. I blink them away. "Oh… I hate this part," I say, feeling a crushing weight over my heart. I dab at my eyes to stop them from trying to generate any tears.

Dave nods woefully. "I know. I hate that Angel dies. He was such a cool character."

I smile ruefully. "And now I'm the one who has to pretend to die. It hurts a little, and I don't know why."

"How do you think I feel?" Dave whispers. "I mean, Angel is Collins's _lover._ I have to do a funeral scene over y– Angel. And I actually can't cry on cue, but luckily, no one can see me from the stage, so I can just fake it for the most part." He shakes his head sadly. "But still…"

I can cry on cue. I can act just as well as I can sing, come to think of it. I've had practice at my college's Theatre class and club, and I helped do many productions, having been cast in each of them for my singing and dancing talents. But Dave… it looks like he struggles with this, and he seems surprised every time he does something for this play, as if he can't believe that this is real, he's an actor now, and he's _good_ at it.

I smile and place a hand on his shoulder, causing him to gaze at me oddly. "What?" he poses.

I shrug loosely, dropping my hand. "Nothing," I say. "Let's get back to rehearsing."

And then the blur returns, and it's a rush of emotions and scripted actions and brief touches and lots and lots of reading and scrambling around, trying to decipher how to go about speaking a certain line or carrying out a certain action.

In the end, we make up a few improv acts that wind up being just right. They work well for the two of us, anyhow, and feel more natural than what was done in the film.

"I think we're going to blow everyone else out of the water tomorrow with our mad rehearsal skills," Dave grins cockily.

I lightly punch his arm. "Don't get an ego complex, Dave. It isn't healthy, and you _will_ get reamed for it, no questions asked."

He chuckles airily. "I guess you're right." He glances back at the digital clock on his stove. His eyes bulge. "Whoa, is it that time already?"

I follow his gaze and also become alert. "Shit!" I curse under my breath. A groan escapes me as I hang my head. "I'm late. I promised Mercedes that I'd be online to vid-chat with her tonight. She said she had something big to tell me." I jokingly smack my palm against my forehead.

"Don't bash yourself over something that trivial," Dave says with a roll of his eyes. He softly grasps my hand and lowers it from my face, following shortly afterward with his hand lifting my chin. I blink, puzzled, my lips parting as he looks directly into my eyes. His hand falls, and for some reason, I don't want it to leave my face, but I don't make a move to say anything to bring it back. "Mercedes will understand. Tell her you got caught up at work or something, or overdid a solo rehearsal for your play."

My brows come together above my eyes. "You don't want me to mention that you're the one who kept me?"

His face unreadable but his voice understanding, he replies: "I didn't think you'd want her to know about me. She was there, back then; she knows all the horrible things I did to you, I'm sure. Why wouldn't she flip out if she knew you knew me now? That we were…" He struggles to find an appropriate adjective to describe our new relationship, and I don't blame him. I myself couldn't figure out if I should refer to us as friends or not. He settles for, "In a musical production together as pretend-lovers?"

Slowly, I nod. "I guess you're right, but… I already mentioned it to her. She knows about you being Collins and me being Angel. She was shocked, and a little disturbed, but relatively okay with it."

He quirks an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Really-for-truly-tuna," I answer cheerfully. It's a silly old phrase I came up with as a child. Oddly enough, my dad eventually picked it up. He still uses it to this day, and I can't help but giggle every time it sprouts from his mouth.

Dave also seems to find the phrase amusing. "'Really-for-truly- _tuna?'_ " he parrots.

I giggle breathlessly. "Don't ask."

"I won't."

I blow air out my mouth, and once again, there's the uncomfortable feeling between us of our impending parting. I don't want to say goodbye, but I can't let Mercedes down, and I might even have to take a cab to get there in time before she gives up on me and leaves an angry, hurt voicemail, and –

"I'll see you tomorrow, Kurt," Dave interrupts my thoughts with an unfittingly gentle tone. He holds out his hand to shake.

I swallow. I don't shake his hand. Instead, I lower it. He looks momentarily rejected before I move forward and give him the briefest of hugs instead. Stunned, he doesn't return it, but as I pull away, there's a bright light in his eyes that hadn't been there before.

"Bye," I answer, and decide now is the best time to take my leave. He sees me out to the elevator (he didn't have to, but it's very gentleman-like of him to bother), and just as the metal doors close, I spy him winking at me.

And my stomach flutters subtly in my abdomen, and I imagine it's because I skipped dinner.

.o0o.

When I get home, I hop onto my computer and hardly wait for it to load before I turn on my webcam and open up my instant messenger. I catch Mercedes just as she's about to log off; I can tell by her status, which reads, 'Kurt, I swear to God, if you don't get on in the next ten minutes, I'm leaving. It's 8:40 now. So hurry the fuck up!'

As soon as we can see each other's faces, the first thing Mercedes does is burst out laughing. "Boy, did you roll around in the show before you got on?"

I chuckle without humor. "No, nothing like that. I just had to catch a cab and race through the sudden snowfall, running up the stairs to my computer to catch you online."

"Oh?" she asks, raising a brow. "And why, may I ask, were you so late?"

I make a face. "Rehearsing with Karofsky took longer than I thought."

She snickers. "Why, were you two making out?"

I undeniably blush a brilliant red, my head jerking back, my face flabbergasted. "Wh-what? No! _No._ I couldn't – we wouldn't – I mean –"

She laughs wholeheartedly. "Calm down, hun, I was only teasing. You know, poking fun of that forceful first kiss you finally told me about a couple years back." She shakes her head from the hilarity of it all. I couldn't agree more, but I don't show it. "But no, I trust you had your reasons. Just don't stand me up like that ever again, got it?" she says, squinting one eye like Popeye and pointing an accusatory finger at me. "Anyway," she says at last, brushing the rest aside, "My big news. Or have you forgotten?"

"I haven't," I answer. "Do share, _mon cher_."

She giggles at my French accent before declaring loudly, her chest puffing out a bit, "That bastard ex-bo of mine who cheated on me? Yeah. Some juicy information: he did it a few times behind my back, with his _ex-girlfriend,_ who he apparently never stopped loving but she only went to him for some free sex without commitment, and guess what? SHE GOT PREGNANT," she says, roaring with laughter. "And now that poor man has to take care of a kid, since his girlfriend is against abortion – probably the only positive aspect of her personality – and he's _begging me for help_. Can you believe it? Some gall he has."

I raise both eyebrows, a smile quirking my lips. "Woooow," I say slowly. "That's quite the load, deary. And what, may I ask, do you plan to do?"

"Nothing, of course," she says flippantly, tossing back some of her hair. She bends down out of the camera's view to retrieve a cherry Coke can, taking a lengthy sip. "Mm," she says around a gulp, "It's not my problem, right? He cheated on me. He didn't want me, he always wanted her. And now, because of his mistake, he has her, albeit unwillingly, but still. He's _with_ her. Why should I do a thing? I feel for the poor unborn child, sure, but it's not my baby. So why should I care?"

I hesitate, debating this. "I think you do anyway. I think you care _because_ the baby was made from his cheat. I think, even if you don't mean or want to, you feel truly betrayed by him, and a part of you wishes it _was_ you baby, that he _hadn't_ cheated on you."

The strangest expression crosses her mocha features, and after a moment of her mouth opening and closing like a gaping fish to say something, she finally admits softly, "I… really hate it when you know more about me that I do, Kurt."

I smirk knowingly. "That's what sassy gay best friends are for, sweetie. I hate to break it to you, but we're here to be brutally honest, telling you when your butt looks too bulbous in a pair of jeans or when you secretly want to be the mommy of your cheating ex-BF's new kid."

She sighs. "Life is a bitch."

"Indeed."

After a while, she twirls some of her straightened hair around one finger, her glossy lips pursing in thought. She looks at me on the screen of her computer, eyes downcast from the camera's view. "Kurt, does that little raw truth make me sound… pathetic?"

Because Heaven and all God's angels forbid that Mercedes sounds pathetic. I roll my eyes at her. "No, Merce. That only makes you _human_ to be so hurt. I know that half the time when you gossip like this, you're just being insecure. And honey, I'm here for you, remember?" I stretch out my arms, my hands going out of frame. "Air huggles?"

She giggles and grips what I assume are the sides of her laptop screen. She air-nuzzles the webcam. "Huggles." She blows me a kiss. "Thanks, Kurt. You always make me feel better." Mercedes sighs and sits backward in her chair. "But… I wish I could see you for real. I haven't met up with you in person for _ages!_ Ohio is so boring. I wish I could have left, like you did. I wish I were living in Chicago with you; now that's my kind of city!"

I smile at that. "It does seem like a good place for you," I concur with a flick of my wrist. "But let me tell you, it's full of more drama llamas than all of McKinley combined. You remember how _that_ was."

"Uhg, don't remind me!" she says with a frustrated groan and a roll of her eyes. "It was like a soap opera happening right before my eyes. I'm just glad that when I got to college, everybody was so mellow and less… well, melodramatic. Their hormones were all settled or something, and it made for a much more pleasant life experience." She grins, her teeth always appearing in such great contrast to her skin to me. "Anyhey, I gotta go. I waited too long for you and now I have to shove off and hit the hay before I get a bout of insomnia and wind up being a zombie at work tomorrow." She waves goodbye. "Just, when you come to Lima to see your family for Christmas… stop by my place, okay?"

"Mercedes, you don't even need to make that request," I grin, "Because I already planned on filling it."

And with that, we laugh and say our goodbyes, and I immediately head into the bathroom to clean up my hair and get ready for bed myself. As it happens, I have my first rehearsal at the Oriental tomorrow.

.o0o.

Rehearsal on Friday is a disaster.

Mimi drops out and indirectly gives up her part to her understudy, who is nice and all, but I caught the end of the original Mimi's audition because it was scheduled before my own, and let me just say that the other Mimi had been a _phenomenal_ singer, and this one is borderline mediocre.

It gets worse than that, however.

Dave makes a passing comment about how attractive the Roger in this play is, and for some mysterious reason beyond my level of comprehension, this comment ticks me off. Yes, I agree, this Roger's actor is hot, and if he weren't as straight as a ruler (and if Dave had never been here – wait, what?) I would have definitely tried to tap that. But… I don't know… hearing someone else say it (and it doesn't matter that it's Dave, I swear) puts me off. Just a little.

To top it all off, one of the directors is a total bitch. I mean, so much so that I would like nothing more than to take her head and plunge it in the Lake Michigan, let it freeze in a block of ice like a cartoon, and proceed to carve out the words in the ice, "Chill out, Womanzilla!"

Yeah. And it doesn't help that half of the people here didn't glance at their scripts before the first rehearsal like Dave and I had done.

It

Makes

Me

Want

To

_Scream._

I start getting pissier than usual near the end of the whole debacle, and when it's finally over, I suppress the urge to throw my arms up into the air and shout, "Hallelujah!" despite being completely non-religious.

Huffily, I shove my things into my bag and violently zip up my coat. Ammeters. I'm working with at least five ammeters, and it annoys the frick out of me.

Dave taps me on the shoulder. "What?" I snap, but once I see it's him, I relax again. "Sorry. Thought you were Maureen's actress come to bother me again about being a lesbian for pretty much the entire play, despite the fact that _clearly_ it's stated Maureen is _bisexual_ and used to go out with Mark."

"…You're talking about Sandra?" he offers.

I shrug. "Yeah, whatever. _Her._ She's been driving me up the wall for the past, I don't know, two hours or so? Like _I_ know everything! What makes her think she should ask _me?_ "

He offers a weak smile. "Because you act like you know what you're doing – and you do know what you're doing – and maybe because you have an open, honest face that people feel they can talk to."

I don't say anything to that. I simply slip my bag onto my shoulder and move to head out.

"Hey, wait up a sec, Kurt," Dave calls behind me. I stop and turn on my heel.

"Yes?" I say curiously.

"Um, I was just wondering… do you want to go ice skating with me on Sunday? I was going to go with a friend of mine to play some one-on-one hockey, but something came up and he bailed. And even though I know you don't play, I thought you might like to, er, skate with me anyway?" Dave poses meekly, barely glancing at me while he hastily explains himself. He straightens and adjusts his shirt collar. "You don't have to, though. Feel obligated to or anything, since my friend cancelled. I just thought it might be… nice."

I bite my lip. _Do_ I want to? I might wind up making a fool of myself, seeing as how I haven't ice skated since I was… what? Eleven, twelve? Before I met Finn, or Carole, and back when my dad was on better terms with my aunt. I remember skating with them for a few winters in a row, from about ages eight or nine to eleven or twelve, and I remember holding both their hands at first as I gained balance and became accustomed to the icy version of roller blades. I was always better at roller skates, due to the more solid balance. But I eventually got used to the ice skates, and I was pretty good at it.

Only… that was years ago.

"Uh… sure. I'd really like that," I say, finally coming to the conclusion that I don't like the left-hanging, on-the-brink-of-disappointment expression on Dave's face, and the conclusion that if I can trust Dave at all, I can at least trust him to be a study pair of arms to catch me if (or, rather, _when_ ) I fall.

He looks reassured and joyful. "Great! I'll drop by your apartment around noon on Sunday, and then we can walk down by Millennium Park where they set up the giant skating rink."

And as I march out of the theatre, I'm suddenly in a much, much better mood. Perhaps this rehearsal wasn't _entirely_ negative.…


	5. Deliberately

When Sunday rolls around, I'm nearly falling out my bed. I like to sleep in on the weekends, so I set my alarm clock to wake me at nine o'clock at the very least to give me enough time to eat, make coffee, shower, and get dressed. I don't have any ice skates; I'll have to settle for renting a pair, as disgusting of a thought as that is (I honestly despise sharing shoes, like at bowling alleys and the like. It's nasty, and _so_ not fashionable to wear beat-up foot coverings of any sort).

When noon rolls around, I'm nearly falling out of my chair. I'm sitting on the couch, pretty as a picture, wearing the latest designer mimic (since I'm too poor to afford the real thing) of a body-hugging sweater with a low v-neck that goes down to my butt, a pair of boot-cut jeans beneath it, black, to match the elegant sapphire of the sweater. I have my jeans tucked into a pair of charcoal boots to coordinate with the charcoal long-sleeved cotton shirt beneath the short-sleeved sweater. Admittedly, one or two of these items (like the sweater and jeans) came from the women's section at JC Penny, but the boots and undershirt are actually from the men's. Fashion has to gender, as I always like to say, but sometimes I feel just a little bit better about my clothes when not every item is made to be for females.

I even make sure not to get wrapped up in my coat and scarf and gloves before Dave gets here, just so he can admire my outfit. Because, really, it's nice to get complimented every once in a while by somebody other than Mercedes. I even ran the outfit by her last night, during another video chat. Naturally, she approved.

When there's a knock at my door, I just about flail out of my seat. I leap up, quickly check my hair in a nearby mirror, smooth the front of my sweater, ignore how much like a prissy girl I feel (since I have long since gotten tired of being referred to as one for half my life), and move to answer it.

Ever paranoid, I first check the peephole in the center of the door. Like I thought, it's Dave. Smiling without initially realizing it, I undo the dead bolt and chain lock and door handle. Once the door is open, Dave's eyes go from glancing around the hallway to landing on me.

I don't hide my grin as his eyes none-too-subtly wander up and down my body, and there's something powerful about being checked out by a guy. It's rare that it happens, since, at first glance, I'm not always as flamboyantly gay as I used to be. Men have gotten more fashionable in the past ten years, give or take a year. And so I often have girl's eyes do the up-down on me, which is flattering and all, but not quite in my favor. This, however, is very-much-so.

"Are you ready to go?" he questions, most likely commenting on the fact that I haven't gotten my warmer clothing on just yet. But there's a rule to these things: always let the man wait for you. Always pretend like you were just finishing getting ready when he arrives, so he doesn't know how much you planned for your date with him. You can't let him think you like him half as much as you might actually be into him.

"Just about," I reply smoothly. I reach for the pile of thick fabric draped over a kitchen chair. I pretend to struggle with getting my coat on. "Oh, could you help me? This thing is a little form-fitting, so it's not always easy to put on." I refrain from giving my intentions away with the smirk begging to curl my lips. But I'm an actor high on Dave's clear approval of my attire, so I must play it off like it's true.

"Er… yeah, of course," he mumbles, and takes a few steps in from the doorway to stand behind me, taking the coat from my hands. He adjusts his hold on it until it's hanging in the air, his hands at its shoulders, waiting for me to slip into it.

I shrug on the sleeves and let an electric thrill run straight through me as his hands skim down the length of my back, leveling out any wrinkles, his fingers brushing my arms for a moment. With he coat on, I zip it up and button the front before holding my scarf over my shoulder. "While you're there, could you help me with this, too, so I can get on my gloves?"

I can hear him swallow, his body not very far behind mine. "Uh… sure," he says, and I wonder if he's blushing. It would be cute to see if the great David Karofsky is capable of blushing. He surely has the potential complexion for it.

I feel the scarf drape around my neck, his arms circling my head as he wraps the scarf gently around me. I pretend not to notice, act as though this it completely normal, as I slip on my gloves and flex my hands to warm up the leather.

Once my scarf is secured, I spin around to face Dave, finding him barely a foot in front of me. I smile at him. "Thanks!" I say gleefully. I gesture toward the door. "Shall we?"

"…We shall," he murmurs, and I think he is trying to puzzle out why I had just done that. To be honest, I'm not entirely sure. Felt right, I guess. I knew that he wouldn't hurt me, trying the scarf too tightly or shoving the coat onto me. It was like a test, now that I think about it; I knew he wouldn't, but I wanted to prove it. I wanted to be extra-sure that he's not the same bully I once had the displeasure to know.

We take a cab because of the cold, and when we arrive at the ice skating rink, my eyes follow the figures out on the ice, some doing figure eights, some stumbling on their own feet, and all of them varying in age from four or five years old to damn near sixty.

I nibble on my chapstick-coated bottom lip. "Dave… I'm not sure I can do this. I kind of neglected to mention the fact that I haven't skated since I was, like, _twelve._ "

"Oh, you'll be fine," he says, waving my distress aside. "I'll help you up if you need it. And if you _really_ need it, I'll gladly give you a few mini-lessons in ice skating."

He holds out a pair of skates I hadn't noticed he'd been carrying this entire time (shows you how observant I am at times… jeez).

My eyes bounce from the skates to his face. I saw the skates slung over his shoulder when he came to pick me up, but these?

"They look like new," I remark curiously, taking the white skates into my hands.

Dave adverts his gaze, one gloved hand rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, well, I had a spare set lying around, and thought you might need them since I have you pegged as a germ-o-phobe that pro'lly wouldn't wear rental skates."

I examine the skates they're a hair larger than my boots, probably for room for thick socks, but… they are nowhere near the size of Dave's feet, and the white color is too feminine for him. These aren't an extra pair of skates. He _bought_ these, and recently. For _me._

An overwhelming blossom of light and warmth grows in my insides. I grin as broadly as the sun hanging in the partially cloudy sky above. "Thank you," I say with the utmost sincerity.

We pace over to the entrance, and find that it doesn't cost any money to skate, only to rent a pair of skates. Having our own, we sit on a bench, put them on, store our shoes in a cubby, and glancing up, I find Dave's hand outstretched to help me to my feet.

Taking in a deep breath and holding it with a bite to my lip, I grasp his gloved hand in mine. He slowly raises me to my feet, and I wobble on the ground beneath my sharply bladed boots. I try to scoot forward, but I wind up slipping, and I stumble forward.

Dave catches me, his chest warm against my arm and shoulder, and one hand still in mine while the other grips my opposite ribcage to stabilize me. "Whoa, careful, there," he breathes into my ear. A shiver courses down the expanse of my skin beneath my clothes, and I don't know if it's from the cold or the proximity. "You have to take baby-steps, not shuffling ones. Here, like this," and he nudges the heel of one of my skates with the toe of his. "Step, step. Good. Now, we're almost to the ice. You'll glide forward a bit, but I'll be at your elbow to guide you, okay?"

I nod numbly, my heart speeding up from a trot to a running walk to a near-gallop in five seconds flat. Part of it is fear of hurting myself on the ice, and the other part of my heartbeat's gait is… Dave, I think.

"David, I swear to Lady Gaga, if you drop me and I get a nasty bruise on this ice, I will kick your half-closeted-gay ass."

He chuckles in my ear, the resounding tremors form his chest felt through my arms. "Don't fret your adorable self about it, Hummel. I don't plan on it."

…He thinks I'm adorable?

But before I can question it further, we're suddenly on the ice, and I'm shakily soaring forward, my feet scrambling to keep up with the slick friction between my blades and the smooth, mirror-like icy surface.

I start to hyperventilate shallowly. "Oh, oh-oh-oh…" I panic, but Dave is right there, easily skating beside me, his hand never letting go of mine, and his other slinking from my opposite elbow to rest on my waist.

"It's okay, you're doing fine. Try to remember how it was when you were twelve, or whenever you roller-skated. It's the same thing, really. Fan our your feet a little, and step with a small lunge to each side. Watch my feet to see how I do it," he coaxes, and I nervously glance down at his black, used skates, the polar opposite of my stiff, white new ones.

I watch how he does it and I mimic it slowly, quickly gaining speed and stability. "I'm… I'm doing it! Yay!"

He laughs at me. "You must be the only guy in his med-twenties I know who says, 'yay' when they accomplish something."

I make a pouting face. "Shut up. That's just how I am." A sense of loss and a droplet of fear emerges when he begins letting go of me, leaving me to skate on my own near him. "Wait… wh-what are you doing? Dave! Dammit, get back here! I need you."

He makes a startled facial expression at those final words, but then the context of them sets in and he smiles. "No, Kurt. You have to learn, just like when riding a bike. I was your training blades, and now you have to try on your own. You can do it. I have faith in you," he adds mockingly.

"Humph!" I huff. "Fine. Be that way," I pout, and stumble a little as I try to get the hang of the gliding motions. Side, side. Side, side. Like the dance moves I like to practice at clubs or on my ancient version of DDR. A duck-waddle, but with larger strides. I can do this, I can do this…

FUCK. I can't do this!

A little girl, blonde, petite, about eight or nine years old, skates diagonally right in front of me, and I launch forward. In the short seconds from being upright to falling, I shut my eyes and throw my hands out in front of myself to brace for the impact to hopefully preserve at least my face, even if I have the feeling that my knees will be black and blue.

Except… all at once… I open my eyes from being screwed-shut, feeling something warm in front of me, and I look down to find both of Dave's arms under my own, against my chest, and as I look over, I find him down on one knee, balanced perfectly, staring into my eyes.

He caught me, like he said he would.

"You okay?" he says.

He aids me in standing upright again, and my hands automatically fall to the lapels of his coat, clinging for support. The Christmas music being played over the speakers reaches me ears with suddenly clarity and loudness; 'Baby It's Cold Outside,' a remake of some sort, with people I can't think of in this moment.

"I'm… fine," I murmur quietly, thinking to myself, _Now that you're here._ I shrug off the add-on and move to hold his hand and slowly turn to stand next to him. "Just… don't let go again."

He does it. He actually blushes. Dave clears his throat oddly, then tightens his grip on my hand. "I won't."

We skate together, probably looking severely like a couple, but I don't care. Let people think what they want. All I care about is staying upright. And, as much as I don't want to own up to it, Dave and I are slowly becoming a couple. I just don't know how I feel about that little tidbit of information, nor how I feel toward Dave in general. I like him, but… I don't know to what extent just yet. It reminds me of that System of a Down song (probably the only one) that Finn likes: 'Roulette.' The lyrics go like this…

" _I have a problem that I cannot explain, I have no reason why it should have been so plain. Have no questions but I sure have excuse, I lack the reason why I should be so confused… I know… how I feel when I'm around you; I… don't know… how I feel when I'm around you… around you…_ " I sing softly to myself, and next to me, I can spot Dave looking at me out of the corner of my eye. I return his gaze, drifting off. "Sorry. The song popped into my head for some reason."

Dave doesn't say anything. I don't expect him to.

"So, to distract me from possibly falling again, do you mind if I chat to you about meaningless things?" I pose, stuttering once as I temporarily loose my footing as another skater passes by me.

Dave gives my hand a reassuring squeeze. "Sure. Yammer on about anything you like."

"Okay. Thanks." And I take a deep breath. "Um… so, I'm going to go see Finn and our parents for Christmas. I can't wait, either, because I'm an uncle now. Finn and Rachel got through some relationship problems since high school and ended up getting married. They just had their baby in November, a little girl they named Christa. I can't wait to see her; I love kids. They can clash a lot when they dress themselves and they can be really messy when they're young, but they're so cute. Almost makes me wish I were straight so that I could have one of my own."

He nods, smiling softly. "You'd make a great father, Kurt. And you can always adopt."

I shrug. "It's not the same, but I just might do that some day." I shrug. "Anyway, Finn and Rachel married, and now Rache is Rachel Hudson – Finn kept his original last name, since he doesn't have to take mine when his mom re-married. But yeah, it's amusing. And better yet, I heard from Sam and Quinn; he apparently gave her a promise ring that turned into an engagement ring after high school – no one told me anything when I went tot Dalton, I swear! – and their wedding is this coming year. They hadn't had it yet because they wanted to make and save enough money to have a rockin' wedding and honeymoon and get a house straight away afterward. It's pretty clever of them to do that, as a matter of fact," I remark.

"That's cool," he says politely, but I know he doesn't care very much, I just need something to talk about, and he doesn't mind listening. And when I stumble again, Dave catches me, acting like a protective shield, sparing me from pain.

I nod. "Mm-hmm." I search my brain for somebody else to mention. "Oh, and then there's Santana. I felt so bad for Brittany; they were friends for so long, but then Santana got into bad stuff – being a stripper at a bar, singing like a siren, wasting her talents, and finally, trying out some drugs with her 'clients' that eventually killed her – and it's so sad, because Santana might have been a bit of a slutty bitch, but she wasn't all bad."

"Whoa. I'm sorry to hear that," Dave remarks. "I knew Santana. Since she was a Cheerio, I admittedly made out with her once, but I guess she didn't like chubby guys, either," he remarks a tad bitterly. "But, _man…_ sex and drugs? I feel sorry for her."

I nod sadly. "Yeah. But Brittany is better about it now, I think. She and Artie work really well together, and ended up staying together. They aren't married, though. Neither of them likes the commitment, but they surprisingly stay true to each other."

"Well, that's nice," Dave agrees, and we slowly curve around the corner of the long rink, headed in a counter-clockwise direction like most everyone else. "You're getting good at this," he adds, referring to my skating.

I smile. "Thanks." I gradually blow air out my mouth. "But… yeah. That's almost everyone."

"What about the two Asians?" Dave says, and I'm surprised he remembers them.

"Oh, you mean Mike and Tina!" I exclaim, and an outburst of laughter escapes my lips. "They moved to Japan on contract. The two of them are famous J-Pop singers now, the sort who mix English into their music. They perform, too; Mike shows off his dance moves and Tina plays some of the music, and they sing together every time. I found them on YouTube once, a video shot by someone's personal camera."

"Wow. It sounds like all your gleeky friends have come pretty far already," he says, and I can't read his tone. He frowns slightly when I glance at him.

"What's with that look?" I comment, poking between his groomed eyebrows with my free left index finger.

It vanishes as soon as I touch him. "Nothing," he replies. "I'm just a little jealous, that's all."

"Jealous? What _for?_ " I retort, feigning shock. "Look at you! You're all grown up from your immature, cowardice, bullying ways, and you're in a freaking _Broadway-level_ musical in Chicago, and you mostly made up all those stupid things form high school to me, starting the second you re-met me. And you're jealous of _their_ progress?" I smack him lightly, surprisingly not losing my balance on my skates. "Shame on you, David."

He full-out _cackles_ , his shoulders heaving and his head back. Calming down, he looks over at me. "Okay, okay, you're absolutely right. I should know better than to be less than confident when around you."

"Damn right," I return boastfully. "Dabbling in low self-esteem is not my forte, and if you're going to hang around me, being over-confident needs to be part of yours, too." I shoot him one of my more dazzling smiles. "After all, you're a changed man, right? No need for that bully-mentality-filled-with-insecurity bullshit."

He flinches a little. "Um… right."

My smile disappears, falling as flat as his grumbled words. "…Dave?"

He stops dead, using the toothed stoppers at the toes of his blades to do so. From the inertia of his sudden stop and our linked hands, I collide into him. He pins me to his chest, and meanwhile, other ice skates fly past us like two men being so close is normal and effortlessly overlooked.

"You don't understand, Kurt. I've been trying to keep it from you, but… I regress, sometimes. I snap at people. I get a frustrated, angry, violent. I've… I've hurt people." He looks ashamed. He releases me, even pushing me away slightly. "So that lack of confidence? Yeah. It's still there. Sometimes I wonder why you even bother with me outside of Rent! I'm no good for you, Kurt. I never have been, I never will be."

My heart clenches in my chest, tight and painful. It aches for him, and I reach out. "No, Dave, it's alright… I understand, but _you_ have to understand that that's just you being human! Even _I_ get like that. It happens to us all. You don't have to be ashamed –"

His expression turns furious in the blink of an eye. "No, Kurt! It's _not_ the same thing! Perfect little you didn't used to be a complete asshole. Perfect little you didn't hurt people because you enjoyed it, and wanted to be buddies with the dumb-jock jerks of the 'in-crowd!'" he barks, and seconds following the eruption, he breathes in and out shakily, his gloves hands scrubbing furiously through his hair, making it static-y. He shakes his head at himself and starts skating backwards, out of my reach.

"Dave –"

"Don't, Kurt," he replies tensely. "I mean it. This… I was stupid, I didn't think. This was a horrible idea. I should've known I couldn't start anew with you." And for a second, I think I see his eyes well up with tears before he abruptly turns his back on me and starts skating away.

"No, wait! Dave! _David Karofsky!_ Get back here, you idiot!" I cry out, trying my hardest to skate as fast as I can with my wobbly, unsteady strides. I need to catch up to him, I _need_ to –

I wanted to ask him if he would join me at the German Winterfest before I left for Ohio for the holidays. I wanted to continue to get to know him better. I wanted to keep out any chances of awkwardness between us during rehearsals for Rent. I wanted…

I stop in my tracks, using the teeth at the tip of my blades, tears slipping past my lids and slipping off my cheekbones unexpectedly. As I watch him go, I realize something as bracing as the cold around me:

I wanted to eventually come to _love_ him.

Feeling hurt, I debate with myself whether or not I should continue chasing after his retreating form or if I should give up.

But _no_. I can't give up! I did back in high school. I caved in to my fears, and I regretted it ever since. I lost my courage. But not this time. I'll be damned if I lose my courage again.

Setting my jaw and roughly wiping away my tears with my isotoners, I charge forward, the gliding step getting easier and speedier and speedier as I move.

I literally run into Dave, right on the edge of the rink. We fall to the ice, both of us grunting in pain as we land back-to-front on the unforgiving surface.

"Fuck!" Dave curses loudly, whipping around, throwing me off of him. He scrambles to his feet and glares down at me. "What the fuck is your issue, Hummel? I'm telling you it's best to stay way, because I _know_ I'll wind up hurting you, and you just come _crashing right back_? Are you part _masochist_ or something?"

Scowling, I struggle to get to my feet, but when I do, I glare right back. "Maybe I do, or maybe you're just being foolish and stubborn! Why can't you just accept the fact that you're a human being like the rest of us and totally capable of making mistakes? Why can't you accept the fact that I've forgiven you and am willing to work with you for both Rent _and_ as a person, and that I might actually _like_ who you are?"

"Don't test me, Kurt," he nearly growls, his tone low and sharp and threatening.

I lift my chin in opposition to his words. "That's not going to work, Karofsky. I'm not afraid of you any longer."

"That so?" he utters lowly, but his tone has lost its threat and sharpness, yet somehow has retained its intensity.

" _Yeah_ ," I rebuttal ever-so-wittily, but my tone speaks for itself. A potent sense of déjà vu washes over me.

And that's when history repeats itself.

Save for this time, it's _me_ who grabs the sides of _his_ face and crushes his lips to mine ferociously, trying to knock some sense into him and make him realize that I'm not the same, just like how he's not the same.

He returns my kiss after a brief bout of shock, his hands coming up to cup my face as well, and then I'm lost in the heat, all of the cold weather around me left in the dust. I've kissed a few guys a couple separate times since high school, naturally. I've gone out with two people in college, and one guy afterward. I've been single for about two years now, but it's nothing.

But this kiss… this kiss is the furthest thing from nothing.

It's the most intense kiss I've ever had, complete with clashing tongues and feverous sensations and tingles lighting up and down my lips to my toes. I feel weak, vulnerable, and yet aggressive at the same time. I attack Dave's mouth in a manner I never thought myself capable of, a curt moan breaking free from my breaths. I can feel his gloved hands pressing into my cheeks, stroking my neck, grabbing my hair. My own fingers clutch the back of his head, willing him closer.

Both of us try to make the other submit their stubborn will; I'm trying to convince him that he's fine and I accept him the way he is now, and he's trying to persuade me the opposite, to get me to leave him alone for "my" sake.

I have a theory while I smother him with lavish kisses. I have the theory that he's afraid of loving me, fearful that I might break his heart like I must have in high school by leaving. He had brought it on himself then, pushing me away and pulling me closer at the same time, and he's doing it again. Except this time, I have to shatter his resolve. I need to make him see what's really going on past his own views on things.

We part, panting, and someone makes a disgusted face behind Dave's back. I flip them the bird with one of my hands behind Dave's head. Then, slowly, I watch as Dave's face changes.

He goes from looking lustful and frantic to looking like stone. "We can't do this." And he pushes me.

I think it was meant to be gentle, but with how unsteady and unaccustomed to my skates as I am, I fall backward, landing on my tailbone with a solid _oomph!_ Excruciating pain radiates from my lower back, and I know instantly that I'm going to have a bruise at the base of my spine, now.

I peer up at Dave, the hurt clearly showing on my face, my eyes teary, for both the reasons of my broken blood vessels and being rejected.

"N-no…" Dave whispers, looking suddenly horrified. "I… I didn't mean to push that hard! I didn't want to hurt you – but I warned you – and… and…"

He flees. Out of shame, he turns and high-tails it out of the rink, barely pausing to grab his shoes from the cubby as he storms off toward the street.

Slowly, wincing during each little movement, I get to my feet. An older woman, perhaps in her forties, skates by, stopping to touch my arm. "Are you all right, honey? I saw your boyfriend push you. Did you two have a fight? Do I need to call somebody?"

My boyfriend? Ha, I wish it had gotten to that point. I shake my head. "It's not his fault that I fell. He barely touched me, and I just suck at keeping my balance. This is my first time skating in years." I sigh heavily. "Thanks for your concern, but I'm fine. I just need to go talk to him, that's all." And I offer her a reassuring smile.

"Well, okay. I believe you. Good luck," she says, and gripping her ten-year-old son's hand and skating off.

Aching, I limp over to the cubbies and remove my skates, draping one skate over either sides of my shoulder while I don my boots. I grumble to myself, "Stupid Karofsky! Why must things be so difficult? Everything was fine until we brought up confidence and self-esteem…" I shake my head. "At least I'm seeing this now. Maybe I can fix things."

Because I do so want to mend whatever is between us. I feel something there, a sort of chemistry I lacked between me and the few other boys I've dated.

.o0o.

Speaking of chemistry.

The director looks directly at Dave and I over the next three rehearsals and blows up every time.

"Dammit, Angel and Collins!" she snaps, the bitch I hate so much. "What happened between you two? I felt such fire before, such _chemistry!_ It was like a beautiful recreation of the love between the characters, and how it's all fucked up! You two better make nice and act better or I might have to give away your parts to your understudies!"

"Ys, ma'am," Dave murmurs bitingly, and I simply make a grunt of censure. I glare at the woman behind her back, but as I do so, an idea strikes me.

"David," I address, and he barely looks at me. "David!" I hiss, making another attempt at getting his attention.

Uhg. Fine. Ignore me, why don't you?

Feeling hurt and a tad lost, I'm the first to bolt after rehearsal. This is a disaster. And it had started off so well, too! Dave was graceful and kind on the ice, and I thought I was going to get to know more about him, when, suddenly…

Argh! Frustration station, next stop, Freakoutville. But I don't want to have a freak-out. I want to undo whatever wrong was done, and get things back to how they were days ago, before that disagreement, before that kiss…

Depressed, I sulk the entire walk home. Once I'm inside, I keep all of the lights off, save for my string of Christmas twinkle lights along the ceiling.

I curl up on the couch, a cup of tea in my hands. I sip at it idly, not really tasting it. I turn and stare longingly out the sixth-story window, observing the way the gentle, medium-sized flakes cascade down from the dimly orange-glowing, light-polluted city sky. I set down my cup on the end table beside me. I won't finish drinking it.

I sigh heavily, my breath skimming the skin of my wrist where I have my chin in my hand. The arm of the couch is beginning to dig into my ribs.

Figgles nudges my thigh with his nose. He releases a long mewl.

"Oh," I say dully, "Hi, Kitty."

He meows again in response, rubbing his face against my limp left hand.

"Sorry," I murmur tiredly, "But I'm not in the mood to pet you right now." I shift, changing my position to bring my knees up to my chest. I press my forehead against my knees, trying to become as small as possible.

Figgles rests both front paws against my legs, peering up at me. He meows again, this time with an air of interest and with a spark of curiosity.

I turn my gaze on him, a light smile gracing my lips. "What is it?" I ask, and he simply makes a grumbling noise, caught halfway between a purr and a hiss. Before I can say anything further, the cat cocks his head at me, then proceeds to leap up onto the top of the couch behind me head. "Weirdo," I murmur. I let my legs fall, my hands folding tightly across my chest. "I don't want to come to terms with that's happening inside me, in case you were wondering why your master is acting so strange."

He nudges the back of my head, purring, and I reach behind me to stroke the back of his ears.

"It's my stupid emotions, Figgles. They're all jumbled and conflicted, seeking resolution." I sigh again. Absentmindedly, I scratch under my cat's chin as he lays two warm paws into my shoulder, his breathing gentle in my ear. I return my gaze to the window; Chicago sure is getting a lot more snow this year. I go on, "It's complicated, and I don't know what to do, Kitty. I'm…" I inhale deeply, trying to find the nerves to finally confess what I figured out on Sunday. "I'm in love with my high school bully."

The cat doesn't have anything to say. Not that I expected him to; cats can't talk, and even if they did, it'd be a moot point because their brains probably couldn't formulate complete sentences or opinions.

But I wish he could respond. I need someone to say something, because where I sit in this very moment, the sole thing that greets me is the truth. The truth is left hanging in the air like a cobweb, spoken aloud to make it noticeable, and no longer to be denied. Except unlike a cobweb, I can't sweep this matter of fact aside.

It's no lie. It's something I can't escape. I'm in love with him.

Damn you, Dave Karofsky. Now, all throughout Christmas and this production of Rent, I have to set things right between us because I can't be without you. I think all I've been missing, all I've been needing, is some familiar ground to plant me feet on while simultaneously situating myself with someone who's unlike me. Someone who's all I used to think about out of fear, and now can't stop thinking about out of interest. Keen, irrevocable interest that I want to hold onto forever, because fuck it all, I _love you,_ you imbecile.

I don't really know how I fell in love. I think it's everything. I don't know. I just want him talk to me again, smile at me again, flirt with me again. I want his arms around me again, his lips on mine again.

Dammit.


	6. Consequently

Over the course of the next few rehearsals prior to our two-day allotted break on Christmas Eve and Day (unfortunately, our directors want to do full-dress rehearsals immediately after the holiday, because they would like the preview show to be on New Year's), I decide to try and woo Dave back.

I talk to him a little in between scenes. I try to get him to be friendly again, but all he seems to be is a big mope! I even flirt with him, touching him on his arms, his face, poking and smiling to try and get him to open back up again instead of be the tightly closed clam he currently is.

With a reluctant sigh or two, he poses not at all harshly, "Why can't you learn to stay away from what hurts you?"

"I did before, dummy," I remind him, "And I had good reason to, too. But not now. Dave, you're, what, twenty-six? You can't act like this. This is silly. _Mentally challenged,_ even. That's not you. I don't know you fully just yet, but I _want_ to, the good, the bad, and the ugly. Why do you keep pushing me away? _I_ kissed _you_ this time, and you didn't seem to mind when I did. I don't understand, so _help_ me to understand."

He finally brings his eyes to mine, and steadily, a wane smile grows before leaving again. "…There's no arguing with you, is there?"

"Nope~," I assure with a singsong voice. "You can't win. I'm just too clever." I pause, a seductive smirk taking over my features. "And besides, _David_ ," I say alluringly, "You can't resist me."

He blushes, and I know that I've done it. I have him hooked enough to start reeling in. Dave quirks an eyebrow. "So what do you want from me?"

Ignoring the sudden chorus of Adam Lambert's song with the same title popping into my head, I answer flippantly, "You have to come over, of course. After Christmas and New Year's. We have solid plays to perform for the first week of January, but during the second week, we're off for a few days. Come over then, and I'll make you that award-winning hot cocoa I spoke of."

He smiles wholly at this, one finally lingering on his face for longer than a second. "I accept," he responds softly.

"Excellent," I smile, my mood lifted, and my heart's spirits soaring. Yes! I'm so happy I could cry. On impulse, I give him a little half-hug, and he returns it surprisingly enough. "Godga," I say as I pull away, "If I had known it would be this easy, I would have tried harder a week ago."

"So would I have," Dave murmurs under his breath, but I catch it anyhow. He shakes his head at himself. "I was being stubborn and irrational. I thought you wouldn't _want_ me, after I hurt you."

"Stupid boy," I reply with a tap to his nose with a fingertip, "You didn't hurt me. I hurt myself, since I was so unskilled with those skates. I lost my balance when you barely brushed me."

"That's not how I remember it," he grumbles.

I wave that aside. "Psh. It doesn't matter how you remember it, it's how _I_ remember it that counts. And if I don't feel wronged beyond you ditching me like that –" he flinches a bit "–Then you're fine, so don't worry your pretty little head over it."

He touches his face. "I hardly think my head constitutes as 'pretty' or 'little.'"

I laugh. "Maybe not. But would you rather I said, 'handsome' and 'thick?'" I scrunch up my nose. "Those words don't sound as nice together."

He smiles in a manner that I find rather seductive. "Maybe not, but I _do_ like that you called me handsome."

.o0o.

The second I arrive at the airport on Christmas Eve morning, I'm barraged by Carole and my father, both of them squeezing me rightly. Behind them, Finn and Rachel and tiny Christa are huddling together, Fin's hand on Rachel's shoulder and the baby in her mommy's arms.

"Nice to see you again, bro," Finn teases, and walks up to me to give me a warm, hearty hug. We've long since become as close as real brothers. It's astounding, really.

"Ohhh," I sigh, tears leaping to me eyes, "I've missed you all _so_ terribly much! I have a lot to tell you."

"And so do we," my dad remarks with a smile. "But catching up time is for later. Right now, let's get you home."

And nothing compares to the smile on my face, or the happiness I feel when I'm with my family.

.o0o.

I've been to all the weddings, seen all of the progresses in relationships, and even as I sit with my family and friends around the dinner table the night of my arrival, I can't believe I'm back in Lima, Ohio. It's the same house I grew up in, with the same basement bedroom and the same kitchen and the same _everything,_ albeit with a more feminine touch now, thanks to Carole. They decided not to move out, mainly because of my Dalton costs, but I knew then that they didn't mind, because they both love this house.

I breathe in the familiar scents of home, and chat idly with Rachel. She lets me hold her baby, and it's the best feeling in the world. My entire body relaxes, my gaze softens, and I can't help but smile broader than ever as I gently stroke baby Christa's angelic face, her skin like a peach's, fuzzy and as soft as silk.

"She's beautiful, Rache," I murmur, tears in my eyes again. Oh, I want to be a daddy. I'll settle for being an uncle instead, but I don't mind it so much because even though I live a bit far, I can always visit around my musical career.

"Thank you," she murmurs. A smile lights up her face. "But it's not like Finn and I had to try very hard. We're both beautiful people, and the act itself is _so_ easy. It's the getting fat and birthing part that sucks."

I laugh as I hand Christa back to her mom; my sister-in-law, my long-time friend, and my previous solo rival. Come to think of it, Rachel is a lot of things to me. "And this is why I'm glad that I'm male," I reply jokingly. "But also why I'm a little sad about being gay."

Rachel looks heartbroken. "That's not true. Don't say that; I mean, look at me! I had gay daddies. It's totally fine."

I shrug. "I guess. But it's not like I have a partner to start a life with, or raise a child with." Although I won't deny that I have someone in mind…

She smiles, nudging my knee with hers since her hands are full. "You'll find someone, Kurt. I'm actually surprised you haven't already. Didn't they make gay marriage in Illinois legal just two years ago? It took them a while, compared to when their neighbors Iowa and Wisconsin did it."

I shrug for a second time. "Yeah, it's legal, but I'm in no hurry to do it. Marriage feels weird to me."

She grins. "I don't blame you." She raises her left hand, twiddling the ring on it. "It's _still_ weird to me."

And to that, Finn elbows her side, making her giggle. "Thanks, darling. You make me feel so good about myself," Finn says sarcastically, but he's smiling.

And the atmosphere is so warm and inviting that I don't even care about the gifts we'll exchange tomorrow, or the fact that I have to leave again at the end of the day. I don't, because this is blissful in and of itself.

.o0o.

"Mm," I hum despondently.

Carole cocks her head at me. "Kurt, sweetie, what's the matter?"

I brush the question off. "Is there any more eggnog?"

"Kurt…"

I sigh, closing the refrigerator door. "It's it pathetic that I miss someone I left back in Chicago, even though I haven't seen all of you in a longer time?"

She shakes her head. "Of course it's not. You can miss anybody when you're apart from him or her, no matter how long you've known them. And besides, you grew up with all of us! This person you miss you must have just met when you moved there, right? So the fact that you've known us longer means you know you can always look back on our times together and see us when you like, but this new person you might only have limited time with."

I make a pouty face and move to hug my stepmom. "Oh, Carole. You always say the perfect thing! I love it."

She gives me an affectionate squeeze prior to releasing me. "I'm just magic like that, I suppose," she chuckles, tapping a curled finger under my chin. "Aww. Can I be nosy and ask if this is a person you love?"

I blush, and it seems to solidify her assumption.

"That's adorable! When do we get to meet him?"

I don't want to mention that my father already met the guy I'm in love with a few years back. Under poor circumstances. But that's something I want to talk to them about later; the best part about having a long-distance relationship with your own family is that you don't have to tell them anything until it becomes serious, for relationships and jobs and so on.

.o0o.

Christmas morning, I'm as bubbly as a nine-year-old of the early 2000s expecting a new Xbox.

I jump for joy, exclaiming miscellaneous phrases of adoration and surprise and other excitement as I open the stocking Carole arranged for me, and the neatly-wrapped presents from my father and Finn. Rachel nurses her baby while Finn opens their joint gifts from our parents. There seems to be a lot of clothes and things for baby Christa, and I imagine it's from my dad's enthusiasm for being a new grandfather (and the same goes for Carole being a new grandmother).

It's all so adorable.

And as the day wears on, all of us eating homemade gingerbread cookies and sipping coffee and chatting it up, occasionally messing around with a gift or two, it starts to tug on my heart to know that I have to leave so soon. I almost curse them for bringing back Rent for the holidays and beyond, because it kind of ruins this.

Except part of me doesn't mind as much, because then I'll be able to see Dave again soon. I still don't tell anyone it's him that I'm seeing; after all, nothing is for sure yet, and even though I fell for him, I don't know if the same can be said about him for me, nor how long we might last.

And yes, I'm not ashamed of him, but I _am_ scared shitless about how they'll react. He used to bully me, after all. But that was years ago, and if they only saw how much he's changed…

I firmly set down a promise to myself in the back of my mind: the next time I have a break to come see everybody, I swear to bring Dave along, assuming we're still together by then.

Feeling better in time to say goodbye, I slowly make my way onto the plane toward my other home.

.o0o.

Finally, the second week of January! New Year's had been a blast – I couldn't end up seeing Mercedes on Christmas, so with my newest paycheck from the Oriental Theatre, I flew her to Chicago for the eve and day of New Year's. We stayed up until just past four in the morning; we drank, we laughed, and we played childish games like two-man Twister and Harry Potter trivia on a DVD, and then we crashed in my bed, half-laying on top of each other in our pajamas, asleep in minutes before the first few rays of dawn.

I talked to her about Dave, and she mentioned a guy she met while at the mall for the post-holiday rush on the twenty-seventh. She said he was real sweet to her, and unlike her previous boyfriends who were at least half black, this new guy is one hundred percent white.

"But he's so cute, and he had blackitude without being black, and it's darling. He isn't a wigger, though. He just acts like himself, and I like him a lot. Our first real date is in three days, actually."

I was happy for her. She needs somebody who's better than that cheating asshole she just dumped earlier this month. And just the other day, she called me and told me about their date.

"We totally hit it off! He kissed me when he dropped me off at home, but only on he cheek. He's a total gentleman, and yet still sassy. It's amazing."

I congratulated her, and informed her that she better try to hold onto this one. She laughed and said it shouldn't be too difficult, since he happens to be a bit nerdy and has only gone out with four girls in his entire life thus far, and he's twenty-three. I scolded her for dating someone two years younger than her, and just laughed at me, saying that really, age doesn't matter once you're a legal adult at eighteen, and admittedly, she has a point.

"Still, I really have a connection with him, Kurt. He used to be chubby in high school just like me. He showed me a picture. It was freaky, because it reminded me of myself. He actually looked fashionable, but people called him a fat gay-boy even though he's totally straight, just a little metro and into anime. But I don't mind, because that just makes him all the sweeter. I'm tired of the bad-boys and former-jocks. I like me the softer boys now, the ones that I can be the backbone to."

I understood. And I realized that I'm the opposite: I like to have someone else be my backbone, my support and protective shield. I clung to Blaine that way for a while, and before him, my father, and even Finn for a while. I can stand up for myself verbally, but when it comes to my emotions and any actual fighting, I need somebody else by my side, backing me up.

And I think that's who Dave could be for me, if we can reconnect again. We mostly have, thanks to those rehearsals at the theatre, as well as one or two little coffee breaks afterward (Dave met Alicia last week. She yanked me aside and said straight away, "I APPROVE.").

And now comes the big day. Tomorrow is out scheduled date at my apartment, for popcorn and cocoa and action/romance films (action for him, romance for me).

I can't wait!

.o0o.

Figgles's green and orange eyes follow my figure as I pace the length of my hallway. I have the cocoa prepared on the stove on the lowest of heat to keep it warm, and the popcorn bag is in the microwave, only needing to have the time set and the 'start' button pushed to get it going. The first movie is in the DVD player, the TV screen off, but still on the right settings for DVDs.

But Dave is late. By at least forty-five minutes, perhaps even an hour. I don't know. I haven't checked in a little while.

I stop and turn to glance out the window. The snow is falling in thick sheets, directly downward, like a white, fluffy version of a heavy rain. It's those giant snowflakes you rarely see and think impossible to form until they appear, and you can only think about how one flake could cover your entire fingernail on your thumb if it happened to land perfectly on it.

Is the snow keeping him? Did he somehow get lost without my guiding him? Did the cab get into a crash? Did he walk? What's keeping him?

My heart flutters anxiously in my chest. Did he cancel and I didn't get the memo? Did he forget? …Or possibly stand me up?

I chew on my cuticles and try to stop wigging out by sitting on my couch. It doesn't help very much.

Suddenly, there's a knock on my door. "Kurt?" comes a muffled voice. "Let m-me in! I'm f-f-f- _freezing!"_

I leap up from the couch and throw the door open, finding a pale and rather blue Dave standing on the other side, his hair dripping and his coat still covered in melting flakes. He's shivering violently.

"I can't f-f-feel my legs," he says with a bubble of laughter around his chattering teeth. He quickly steps inside my apartment, shivering at the temperature change as I close the door behind him and my heating system hits him. "It's w-worse than all the t-t-times I played hockey to c-cool my jets. But th-this? Th-this is _too. F-f-fucking. COLD."_

By now, I know all about his trips to indoor rinks to blow off some steam and help him cope while he went through his transformation. And he's told me how cold he's gotten during a few of those times, once nearby getting frostbite because the rink was one of the few outdoor ones he visited.

I giggle, taking his wet outer layers of clothing. The bottoms of his dark denim jeans are soaked with slush and dusted with the filth of the Chicagoan sidewalks. "You walked here?"

"H-had to," he mutters, rubbing his arms over his slimming black sweater to heat them with friction. "No m-money to sp-spare for a c-c-cab."

"Ohh, you poor baby!" I coo, teasing him. I'm not mad or anxious about him being late any longer. It was the weather after all, which can be easily fixed. "C'mere. I made the cocoa already, so you can enjoy a nice hot cup right now."

"D-don't mind if I d-do," he stutters, some of the chattering in his teeth fading. I ladle him a mug and hand it to him. He slumps into a kitchen chair, gulping, hissing over how it must have burned his tongue, but by the look on his face, it's a welcomed burn.

"You need dryer clothes, especially those jeans." I state logically, "Or else you could get hypothermia."

He grins deviously. "T-trying to get me out of my pants, Hummel?" he quips, and I blush furiously.

"No! I'm only saying –"

He laughs, drinking more cocoa. "I was just kidding," he says. "By the way, this really is the best cocoa I've ever had. It's so… flavorful. And extremely chocolaty."

I smirk. "Told you." I hold up a finger. "Back in a moment. I'm going to go see if any of my pants will if you while still coordinating with your outfit."

"M'kay," he says, because when you're that wet and cold, even you probably wouldn't turn down a chance to be dryer and warmer.

I return a minute later with a pair of khaki dress slacks in hand. "These are the loosest pants I have, so they should fit your more muscular legs." I pretend that it's totally normal for me to compliment him on his legs, even though it's totally weird. "And everybody knows khaki matches black." I shift uncomfortably as I hand him the bottoms. "You can change in the bathroom."

He takes them, nodding his thanks, and as he walks away I notice that all of the cocoa in his mug is gone. Without thinking much about it, I automatically refill it and move to the microwave to put on the popcorn.

When Dave emerges from the bathroom and enters the kitchen again, I can't hide how my jaw drops a little. The pants, luckily, fit him well. But unluckily, they hug him _too_ well in the hips and ass, and I'm left staring. I advert my eyes, pinning them on the changing green digits of the microwave.

"Good, they work," is all I say.

Dave laughs minutely. "I guess so. They feel warmer, so I don't really care." He notices his re-filled mug, mumbles a word of thanks, and then gestures to my living room as he picks the cup off the table. "Movie time?"

I nod, my smile making a comeback. "As soon as the popcorn's done. But you can turn on the TV and press 'play' on the remote to get the previews on the disc rolling."

"Sure," he replies, and soon, I'm sitting pretzel-legged on the couch next to him, my knee brushing his, as I set the large serving bowl of popcorn between us.

The movie plays, and throughout the whole thing, I half expect something to happen. For Dave to touch me, even on-purpose-but-appears-accidental, yet he doesn't. He stays as still as a statue, eyes glued to the screen each time I glance over at him (even though I think I keep seeing him stealing glances, but I can't catch him if he is).

Finally, the movie concludes, and I stretch as I stand, taking the empty, dirty bowl with me. "Another?" I ask.

"I would, but I think you should check the weather first," he murmurs, looking a teensy bit frightened.

"Hmm?" I inquire, and pivot on one heel to glance out the window.

Oh, I see. Each time I thought he had been looking at me, he must have been glancing out the window just past me. And as I look, my eyes bulge right out of my skull.

"Holy shit!" I gasp, and nearly drop the bowl. It went from heavy downpour to _blizzard._ Quite literally, there is a blanket of white blurring on the other side of my window with violent tosses and swirls, the flakes just as large, but the wind suddenly a monster.

Hastily placing the bowl in my sink, I rush back to the television and flip it over to the cable setting, and then to the Fox News channel. And, right there, is a severe weather warning, proclaiming blizzard conditions and chances of power failure and coaxing all viewers to remain indoors if they can, and if they aren't already indoors, to get to the nearest place they can, advising against using any transportation that involves wheels.

"Well _fuck me,_ " Dave curses nearly inaudibly, "How can I go home?"

"You _can't,_ that's just the thing," I mutter in shock. "You… you'll have the spend the night, until this passes."

"A-are you crazy?" he exclaims, jumping up to stare at me. "That's – that's just – "

I smile ironically. "Gay?" I answer, trying to make light of it.

He's shaking, and I don't know why. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides. Dave bursts out, "Unsafe! Kurt, you don't understand, it's _bad_ if I stay the night here, I – I might –"

I make a clicking sound with my tongue, placing a hand on my hip while I lay the other on his shoulder. I like being his height; it makes thing easier. Looking him directly in the eye, brown to blue and back again, I relay softly, "Chill, Dave. I _trust_ you. And besides, being snowed in has happened to me before when I was at my aunt's house. I know how to handle this." I pause, removing my hand as I watch his bottom lip slip in between his teeth. I sigh. "Look, if you're uncomfortable because of that kiss we shared at the rink, I promise to keep it platonic, okay? Now then…" I say with forced enthusiasm, "Shall I make more cocoa, or coffee? Put on another movie?"

As if on command, the lights suddenly flicker and go out.

There's a long silence.

"Um, okay, maybe that second option is out, but my stove is gas and I have matches to light it, so we can still have cocoa."

Yeah, I can tell that this is going to be a thrilling disaster.

.o0o.

"I got it!" I say, clasping my hands together, "It has to be Miss Scarlet in the ballroom with the rope!"

"If you're wrong, Kurt, you have to forfeit, and I win by default," he smirks.

I grin wickedly. "My woman's intuition is rarely wrong," I joke, playing up my feminine qualities. I rub my hands together before reaching out with wiggling fingers for the miniature manila envelope in the center of the game board. "Here goes…!"

I check the cards. Miss Scarlet… the ballroom… and… the _candlestick?_

"What? Nooooo!" I whine, slumping backward in my chair and pouting. "Damn it all."

Opposite me, Dave roars with laughter. "And that's how it's done," he says, turning over one of his cards to reveal the rope. "You should only guess when you've ruled out _all_ of the possibilities."

I blow air out my mouth. "Ffft. That's just lame. Risk is more fun, and sometimes help you win sooner." I shoot him a look. "But it's better when SOME people don't withhold cards!"

Dave laughs some more, reaching over the short table to pat me on the shoulder. "Unless you're a sore loser, and then it's not as fun. Lighten up; so I tricked you a little by withholding that card. I would have shown it to you if you would've been more patient."

"Patience may be a virtue, but it's not one of _my_ virtues," I retort flippantly. I sigh, gathering up the cards. A yawn escapes me. "I'm bushed, now. We should probably head off to bed; who _knows_ what time it is."

He taps the watch on his wrist. "I could tell you." Dave lights up the screen and counts off the hands. "Hmm. It's just after one."

"In the _morning?_ We've been awake for that long?"

He shrugs. "When it's a blizzard outside and I didn't even show up until seven, time flies by."

"…Good point."

I yawn again, and Dave follows suit. "Man… seems I'm tired, too," he says at the end of his loud yawn. "I assume I have the couch to sleep on?"

I wink. "Naturally. I like my bed, thank you. It's comfy."

"Jealous," he murmurs jokingly. Getting up and helping me put Clue away, we go our separate ways. I give him a pile of blankets and he sets them up on the couch while I brush my teeth and head off to bed.

As I'm pacing back to my room, however, I catch in the dim lighting down the hallway in the living room a glimpse of something that stops me dead in my tracks.

The years have been kinder to Karofsky than I originally thought. In the low light, I can see him stripping down to his boxers to sleep. The reflected light off the snow outside flowing in through the window illuminates half of him, and as he turns, I see the rest. His lean muscles moving just below his skin, smooth and sexy. He's not overly built, but he is far from chubby. I doubt there is even an ounce of fat on those flat abs. And Gaga, his back! I've never been one for backs, but his is _perfect._ And his legs. _They're shaved,_ something I didn't expect from him but am all too happy to see.

A jolt of desire jerks my body, urging me to go out there. But I told him I'd keep things platonic! What if he isn't as interested in me as I am in him (since I kind of love him and all…)?

Stiffly, I turn around while he climbs under the blankets on the couch. I slip into my sleep pants, leaving off my usual t-shirt because I'm suddenly far too warm. Somehow, the power came back on during our first round of Clue (but we turned the lights off again to continue playing in the candlelight, since it felt more mysterious that way), so the heat has been on for at least an hour. But that's not long enough to make me as warm as I feel.

Beneath my sheets, I squirm, trying to find a comfortable position to lie in. My entire body seems to twitch, a voice urging me in the back of my head to _go ahead and get out of bed, into the living room, onto the couch… go ahead and touch him._

I want to. I urgently, achingly, longingly want to. I've been craving more contact with him since that kiss I initiated at the skating rink before our temporarily lover's quarrel (although really, it was minus the 'lover' part).

_You love him, don't you? Why don't you prove it? Show him. He needs to know, and there's a huge chance that he won't reject you._

Urrgh, shut up, shut UP, stupid brain! I don't want to be thinking like this! I just want to sleep. I'm not as tired as I had been moments ago, but I'm still _sleepy,_ dammit!

_Do it do it do it doitdoitdoit!_

Ahhhhh… fuck it.

Okay. I will. But only because this nagging urge is too fucking irksome to ignore. It's keeping me awake.

With a silent roll of my eyes and a disgruntled groan, I shove myself out of bed and quietly tiptoe down the short hallway to the living room.

A board under my carpet creaks.

"Kurt? That you? Or is it that damn cat again? I already told you, Figgles, I don't want to cuddle!" he says, sounding amused, but also a bit tired.

I bite my lip, but after a moment's hesitation, I step out of the shadow of the hallway and into the dim light leaking in from the window.

"Kurt?" Dave asks, propping himself up on one elbow. He frowns at me, searching the near-darkness for my eyes. "Something wrong…?"

I don't say anything. I can't believe that I'm doing this, but I can't stop myself. I want him _so_ badly I can hardly handle it, and surely can't resist it any longer.

I keep my breathing down as I pace nearer, but my heart refuses to cooperate the same way. It thuds erratically in my chest, banging like a psychopath in the padded walls of a cell in solitary confinement.

I bite my lip nervously as I press one knee into the cushion supporting the upper half of Dave's body. It yanks on the blanket minutely, and makes contact with Dave's side. I can feel his body heat even through the fabric.

"K-Kurt… what are you doing…?" Dave whispers, and as I bend down, my lip falls out from between my teeth and my lids fall at half-mast. My breath comes out shallowly, ghosting over the exposed skin of his neck, our noses inches apart. "Kurt…" he murmurs with a softer, less-intimidated tone.

"I love you," I tell him, my tone conveying all of my feelings in the lowest octave my vocal cords are capable of.

That's all it takes.

All of a sudden, Dave is taking in a strangled breath and leaning forward, yanking me to straddle his lap as he connects our mouths.

He gives me a slow, ardent kiss, the lingering taste of chocolate on his lips. "I've loved you since high school," he confesses breathily, his voice low, and if I hadn't been right in his face, I wouldn't have known he had even said it. "It hurt me, the day you left for Dalton. I didn't want you to leave me... I just didn't know how to deal with or express what I felt for you."

I answer him with a peck on his lips, along his jaw, a suckle at his ear. He moans my name, and I let one of my hands ghost over his back, tickling him. I can feel the goosebumps rise, dotting his flesh under my fingers.

"I hoped for as much," I say at last, and that's the last thing either one of us says for a while.

What follows is like a dream.

I crawl under the blankets, seeking warmth, our bare chests brushing against one another as I lean up into him, my mouth locating his and steadily slipping downward to lick and nip with lip-covered teeth down his neck and across the expanse of his collar bones and pectorals. He arches up against me, his hands massaging my hips and trailing up my lower spine. His mouth finds my earlobe, and my hands find his sides, and where I lay atop him I can feel every shudder and breath and heartbeat.

I've never done this before. I've never felt this before. I've kissed. I've groped a little. But I've never experienced something as sensual and loving as this.

Beneath me, there is mostly darkness; I can't see Dave's face in the lighting. I bring up a hand and run it over his facial features; I smile, finding that they are relaxed in bliss.

He smiles lazily under my hand. He uses one of his larger mitts to cover mine, pulling it away from his eyes, only to bring it to his lips to murmur against my knuckles, the buzz of his talking sending sparks through me, "It's never felt right. All the times I've been with somebody – a girl during my closeted days, or a guy during my non-closeted days – it's never been right. Because none of them were you."

It touches me. It goes directly to my heart, each and every word. "You… you've liked me that long?"

He leans up, pressing his lips between my collarbones at the base of my throat. I refrain from gasping or moaning, but a sigh slips out despite my best efforts. " _Yes,_ I have," he expresses in the gentlest tone I have ever heard him use. "Why do you think I forced myself on you so strongly near the end?"

The end, because I left. It makes me wonder… "What would have happened?" I whisper. "What, had I stayed at McKinley?"

He shakes his head, his hair tickling my chest as his lips wander inches lower. "Nothing. I would have stayed the same, and never gotten any better. I would have gotten worse. I would have lashed out more, been even more frustrated and stressed, and I would have been insane and sick with desire, possibly to the point of rape. You had to leave then, Kurt. Once you did, I realized everything. I moved on in all the appropriate ways. But I never forgot you. You were always on my mind somewhere."

I start to cry. That… despite the context of some of those notions… has to be the most romantic thing I have ever heard.

Dave kisses a few random places between my chest and stomach before reclining backward to lie down again, this time bringing me with him and using his hands on my lower back to make me arch upward, my hands supporting me on either side of his head.

In between little licks and sucks on my nipples and down my trembling abdominals, he murmurs, "When you… invited me to spend the night… I was afraid of this… but I also prayed for it." He pauses to run a hand over my backside, down one thigh. It's extremely difficult to stifle my approval of the pleasurable actions, so I opt to make small, cut-off noises akin to whimpers. Dave goes on, "You might not believe in God, Kurt," he utters, his breath turning specks of saliva on my skin cold, making me shiver deliciously, "But I think He gave me another chance with you at a time in my life when I was a better man."

I swallow, and grip his head, willing him to look up at me. "I think He did, too," I say, just before I crush our lips together for a second time.

After a long, long time of simply kissing and caressing and pressing closer, I stop, gazing down into Dave's eyes. "I want you," I murmur.

He shakes his head. "You can't have me, not yet. Just like how I knew I couldn't have you in high school," he adds with an ironic smirk. "You have to wait."

"Why?" I complain in a needy whisper. I don't mind giving him my virginity along with my first kiss. I'm actually glad he stole it; aside form the fact that, back then, I was repulsed by the notion of it being him. Now it's like a fond trigger-memory to review on occasion.

"Three reasons," he says softly, "One, because a couch is no place to have sex, _trust_ me." He smiles, remembering something I know I'll get jealous of if I picture it, "And two, because we're not ready. Now's not the time. And three… well, um… I don't know how." His voice is small and humble at the end, and it nearly makes me giggle.

I blink in astonishment, a grin breaking out on my face. "Really? You never _researched_ it?"

"Old habits die hard," he admits with a shrug, his hands still on my hips, and mine still around his neck from our latest kiss. "I felt too… embarrassed to. Too scared."

I chuckle dryly, my throat a bit parched, but I don't want to move to get water. "All right, then. I'll wait. We can just go to sleep now; I'm sure it's around three o'clock by now."

"Yeah," he smiles, and tucks my head under his chin, bringing the blanket over our shoulders. "Goodnight."

"'Night."

And all I can think of as I drift off to sleep is how glad I am that I gave into my raging hormones for once. It turned this snowstorm into a beautiful night.


	7. Eventually

"I must say, I'm impressed, boys," the male director commends, approaching my boyfriend (how I love that word!) and I. He plants a hand on each of our shoulders, shaking us lightly. "You had some rough spots with your acting and singing in the middle there, and I don't know what _that_ was all about, but you really came through. You pulled it off, and now we can wrap up the limited shows of this play with tomorrow night's final performance. I expect only the best from the both of you! You're the greatest. You both, plus Samantha and Eric; those two as Mimi and Roger feel realer than the film, huh?"

We laugh, agreeing, and watch as he walks away. The Bitch-I-Hate-So-Much stops by. "Finally your chemistry is back! You two were royally pissing me off for a while there. Good to see you got your acts together. But Kurt, you should do better with your choreography –"

Dave scowls, taking a step in front of me. "Like you're one to talk! You just bark orders at all of us and shove what we do right aside, only pointing out our flaws. Can you just _shut up_ already? You're not even the main director! You're the _assistant_ director! So don't pick on Kurt, all right?"

She looks floored, angered, but suddenly her expression melts into some even more cruel. "Oh, wait. _I_ get it. You two are _dating,_ aren't you? Ha! No wonder you're so protective of him, and why your chemistry works now but sucked for a while. You two must've had a little spat and now you've kissed and made up. How _adorable_ ," she says, sneering, and I want nothing more than to slap her. She turns abruptly on her spiky high heels and marches away.

I rest my hand on Dave's shoulder, taking a step closer to him. "Are you okay?" I question. His face is contorted and his hands are in fists, as if he's about to beat the crap out of her.

He takes in a slow, shaky breath. "…Yeah. I think so." He forces his face to go lax, then turns his gaze to link with mine. "Thanks, Kurt."

I wave it aside, rubbing his shoulder with my thumb. "Just don't let other people get to you. That's how we can work on any temperament or self-esteem issues you might have."

Dave offers a smile. "I guess so. I'm just glad I have you here to keep me in line."

I wink. "Hopefully not too straight of a line," I joke, poking fun at both how I like messed-up people – perfection is too boring; I like the drama – and at his pretend-heterosexuality of the past. He catches one or both of the jokes and laughs, pulling me into a one-armed hug.

"Stop being cute," he says, "It's too much."

I snuggle into his side. "I can't help it! I was born that way, you know."

And after we separate to gather our things to leave, Dave turns toward me and proposes, "Hey, tomorrow is Valentine's day, the last show, and I was thinking it'd be the opportune time to go out. You know, celebrate being in a play – it'll help build our resumes and auditions, now, to say that we were in this production of Rent – as well as celebrate the Day of Love. So what d'ya say?"

"I say _yes,_ of course. Do you even need to ask at this point?" I retort, utterly gleeful. The smile on my mouth right now could split a building in two.

He chuckles mildly. "Okay. Just checking." He stretches as he shrugs on his coat. "I hate February, though. I wish this month was over with already."

I roll my eyes. "I know, right? It's the shortest and longest month _ever._ "

Dave grins. "That reminds me of a stupid pun-type joke." He raises a finger. "What's the shortest and longest sentence?"

"I dunno, what?"

"'I do.'"

It takes me all but half a second until I get it. I laugh. "Very clever. 'I do' as in at a wedding. It's only two words long as a sentence of grammar, but it lasts forever as a life sentence." I shake my head. "Where'd you pick that up?"

He shrugs. "My dad. He jokingly leaned over to me at my cousin's wedding during my senior year of high school. I ruined the silence of the church when I snickered aloud."

I shake my head at him lovingly. "Oh, _you_." We march out the doors together and pace down the street, side-by-side. I make a couple hop-steps in front of him and start walking backwards so that I can face him while I speak. "Hey, where should we go tomorrow after the play, anyhow? It'll be really late, maybe ten or eleven. Hardly even V-Day any longer, and only bars will be open for the most part."

Dave grins. "So what if Valentine's will be technically over by then? It's the thought that counts. I have a present for you before the show anyway."

My face goes pale. "Oh, _no,_ " I groan, "I didn't get you anything!"

He stops, and I stop, and he reaches out to muss my hair. "You know I hate that sort of thing. Getting gifts and surprises annoy me. I did it because I wanted to, and actually, I was going to wait for your birthday, but that's just too far away. So think of it as just… a token of my love?"

I smile. "Okay." I spin to stand beside him, linking his elbow with mine. Normally he doesn't like public displays of affection – the PDA-ness is uncomfortable for him because he's still weird about being labeled a homosexual, I think – but lately he's been lenient enough for this. I think that kiss at the roller rink back in December helped change him a little. "So… where, again?"

He looks like he forgot I asked already. "Oh; I was just thinking my apartment around the fireplace, you know, with a little wine and cheese and crackers and chocolate. But if you want to go out –"

I shake my head, smiling broader. "Nah. I like that idea better than a restaurant or something. Besides, I'll be too tired to go anywhere else." I give him my pleading look. "But may I sleep over? Pretty please?"

He frowns at me, scolding lightly, "Kurt, we had this conversation before: _no sex._ " As if I'm some horny teenager again. Pfft.

I stomp my foot while we walk. "No! I wasn't talking about that, I swear. I just like your apartment and spending more time with you, that's all."

He sighs, caving in. "All right, fine. You can spend the night."

I decide to push a little further, leaning into him a little. "May I sleep in your bed?"

He rolls his eyes at me. "You can have the couch; I want my own bed."

"…May I sleep _with_ you in your bed?" I add lowly, playing up my more sultry tones.

I can feel him shudder. "Kurt…" he sighs, gritting his teeth. "You… you're just _infuriating_ at times."

I grin. "I know~," I reply in a chipper voice. "So, can I? You're always so warm."

After what feels like forever, he gives in with a hang of his head. " _Fine._ "

"Thanks, Dave," I say, leaning my head on his shoulder for a second. "You're the sweetest stick-in-the-mud I've ever had the pleasure to know."

"Yeah, yeah… whatever," Dave responds listlessly. But his eyes are smiling.

.o0o.

Nothing quite compares to the sense of pride and exceptional bliss that comes with being applauded when you comeback out onto the stage after a performance and make your final bows. As I grasp Dave's hand and duck down a few times, all I can hear are the roars and hoots and hollers of whistles and cheers and constantly clapping hands.

Backstage, all of us actors wait for the seats in the theatre to empty. We give hugs to one another, swap some phone numbers with friends we've made (I grab Samantha's number, because even though we rarely interacted as characters on stage, we became the best of friends backstage), and wish each other luck on future parts in other plays, and even the same one a second time if it makes a comeback again.

As people leave, Dave takes my hand. "Let's slip out the back early," he murmurs into my ear, leaning in for me to hear him over the idle chatter.

"Okay," I agree, following him through a hidden, roundabout path through the set and out a back door into an alleyway. He brings us around front to a store behind the Oriental, and we hail a cab. On the ride there, we don't say much. But once we get to his apartment, the first thing Dave does upon closing his door is press me up against it, one hand locking it and the other touching my jaw.

"I think this was your best performance yet," he smiles. He plants a kiss on my mouth that I try to lengthen, but he stops me. "Your singing was fantastic. I felt pale in comparison."

I loop my arms around his neck. "That's a lie. You were amazing, too," I whisper, and teasingly kiss him before muttering against his mouth, "So, when do I get my present?"

"Spoiled brat," he grins, leaning off of me and moving into the kitchenette, then down the hall. I step at a snail's pace around the corner, peering down the hall. Dave returns from his bedroom doorway, a bit messily wrapped package in his hands. It's nearly as wide as his torso.

I raise an eyebrow. "This is just a hunch, but even though you got paid by the Oriental after New Year's, did you by chance spend that money on this?"

"This… and the utilities for this apartment," he explains. "Believe it or not, mine costs more than yours because of the fireplace upkeep and location."

"That sucks," I remark idly, taking the proffered gift into my hands. It feels a little heavy. "What _is_ this?" I frown at the conundrum in my hands. I shake it lightly, and Dave makes a face. I cease my movements only to drop down onto the couch, placing the box in my lap.

Dave turns around and busies himself with getting that mini inferno he promised me started in the fireplace. I carefully tear open the paper, all shiny red and silver, and pluck off the bow to pop onto my chest. I'm amused by all of the black Sharpie covering anything remotely related to a hint as to what the product is.

I'm reminded idly of those skates he bought for me. At least this time he isn't playing it off like they were given on accident. I haven't called him out on the skates just yet, despite the fact that we've skated together a handful of times since.

I rip open the tape on the box and shuffle through foam. I hate packing foam. It's ugly and non-recyclable and obnoxious.

When I finally get to the gift itself, I can't speak. I stare at it in my hands, wonder how Dave _knew,_ wondering how he found it, wondering all sorts of little things that my mouth is too dazed to voice.

"…If you don't like it, you can tell me," Dave says gruffly, looking confused by my lack jaw and unblinking eyes. He comes to sit beside me on the couch, and I somehow manage to stop my mouth from hanging open. "But, uh, I can't take it back. It was kind of a one-time-purchase sort of deal."

A steady smile makes its way onto my face. I snap out of my surprise, blinking, and set the gift between us on the couch, leaning over to squeeze him tightly. " _No,_ Dave. I would _kill_ you if you tried to take this back. I _love_ it. You don't even _know_ how much! I mean… it's just… I've always wanted the full collection of black-and-white film-noir movies of the thirties, forties, and fifties, but I never knew where to look or if I could ever afford it! I was, like, _obsessed with_ Bette Davis in particular when I was younger, and I _still_ love her films. How did you _know?_ I've never dropped hints that I like this sort of thing, and yet here they are, _all_ of them, ranging from just about every classic I can think of to even a few I've never heard of, but am sure are awesome, and –"

Dave laughs, silencing me with a finger on my lips. "It was just a hunch," he smiles weakly. "To be honest, it just seemed like something you might enjoy, and… I happen to like old movies myself. I used to watch them religiously with my mother on rainy days before my middle school years before I thought grew out of them. I miss them, now, and they never air any more. So, I thought: I'll go on Amazon and find a new or used set and we could enjoy them together."

" _Well_ ," I grin brightly, "This is mega-sweet of you. Truly thoughtful." I lean over. "And you deserve a reward for it."

Dave raises an eyebrow. "What sort of reward?" he murmurs, also leaning over, chin pointed forward and eyes half-closed, ready for a kiss.

All too quickly, I pull back and stand up. I throw out my arms. "Dinner and dessert, of course! I'm going to make you a glorious feast and the best damn dessert dish of you life this weekend."

"What? You'll make me fat again!" He hangs his head before laughing. "You had me going there for a moment. I was thinking of… er, well, a _sexual_ reward."

I snicker behind one hand. "Yes, I know I did." I bend over, looking down at him. "And while I'm talented at such things, admittedly not a virgin in _that_ sense of the word, I also happen to be a fabulous cook, thanks to the Food Network and its chefs."

He grins. "I believe it, on all accounts. I also don't doubt that you'll deliver. But, uh, can I at least have a kiss?"

"There will be time for that later," I reply simply. I move into the kitchenette, looking for the bottle of previously-spoken-of wine.

We spend the remainder of the evening enjoying ourselves in front of the fireplace, curled up on the floor in each other's arms. I feel safe here, and I'm more than happy to see Dave so relaxed and comforted. It's something I've never really known on him, an expression and demeanor that, until recently, I could never picture. It's odd, contrasting the past to the present, and I shouldn't do it very often to being with, but as it happens, it helps me appreciate the present and accept how things are even more.

.o0o.

Three months pass.

It's May, just the start of, and the sun is warm and bright, the city growing hotter each day, and summer is right around the corner, even as a lingering spring breeze sweeps through Chicago on occasion to ruffle my clothes and remind me of the unpredictability of Illinois weather.

But it's quaint, and I like the feel of it. Dave and I decide to take a walk through one of the more nature-oriented parks outside the heart of the city where we live.

We're making decent money now, and recently, a man approached the two of us separately, saying that he was a fan of our work during Rent and wanted to know if he could cast us in an independent film of his, a music he wrote himself. We wholeheartedly agreed, because money is money, but also because the plot sounds intricate and entertaining; we would have to play high school students again (something that made us laugh), only we would be attending a school on a space shuttle, since, in his screenplay, Earth has long since been overpopulated and had to resort to living partially in the Earth's orbit. The idea is a little silly, but could make for one interesting little movie, so we agreed. He told us that the focus would be on others, but that he wanted a gay couple in it somewhere.

Dave looked uncomfortable about it, but I assured him that this might help him come full circle with the terms of his sexuality, and he decided to trust me on it, bless him. I never realized, but apparently I'm a huge impact on him. It's humbling.

"David," I address sternly, stopping our walk near a bench in the park. "You know, I think it's about time I reintroduced you to my family. They still only remember you as my tormentor, and that's just _wrong,_ since you are clearly far from that now."

He shifts awkwardly on his feet, letting go of my hand. "I don't know, Kurt… they might flat-out reject me, or forbid you from seeing me anymore, and I just couldn't take that."

I frown and place my hand on my hip, leaning to one side. "Dave. _How_ old am I again? – I don't need their _permission_ to date someone! I can see whomever I please, and if I want to stop seeing someone that will be _my_ decision, not any of theirs."

He laughs meekly. "I should have known better. You're extremely willful."

"Damn right I am," I return with a grin. I lace our fingers together once more and continue walking. "So, with our newfound wealth from recent gigs, I say the two of us should fly down to Lima, Ohio this month – maybe for a weekend, maybe for a week – and say hello to the folks. Yours, too."

"Um… no, not mine." He mutters, and there's pain in his voice that makes me halt in my tracks for a second time.

"…Why not yours?" I murmur softly, trying to peer into his eyes, but he's glancing away.

I can hear him start to cry as he informs me, "My father died of a heart attack – his cholesterol was too high, I 'ppose – back when I was in college. And my mother still refuses to speak to me ever since I came out to her following college. She said that she hated me for keeping secrets, and that having a son who went against the religion she tried so hard to follow and force on me for so many years was just too much after her husband dying. I call her all the time, but she never answers."

I don't even hesitate. I simply bring him into my arms and stroke his hair, my other hand rubbing soothing circles as he sobs onto my shoulder, only returning the embrace after a while, his hands fisting the fabric of my (quite fashionable) hoodie dangling over my lower sides. "Shh, it's okay. I'm sorry, Dave… I didn't know. You should have told me sooner."

He mumbles something, but I only catch the words, "didn't want," "spoil," and "happiness." I assume that he means that he didn't want to ruin the happiness we had over the past few months with his burdens. I shake my head against his shoulder.

"That's wrong, Dave. I love you. I want to share your burdens and help you through your pain. That's why I'm trying to do this, to make us go to Lima; we need to face everyone else and tell them what we have together, because in order for this to last as long as I want it to –" I don't want to admit to him just yet that I want him by my side always, since I fear it might feel too heavy on him only six months into our relationship "– we need to confront our family issues and let people know."

He nods dumbly into my shoulder, his breath hot on my shirt, and his hands encircling my waist. "I love you so much, Kurt. I don't know how I'd stand by myself with you there to hold me up, I'm such a mess."

I smile bittersweetly. I pull away enough to wipe his tears with my thumbs and stroke his face. "Well you're a hot mess, so I can deal with it." And I widen my smile when Dave starts humming the old song, 'Hot Mess' by Cobra Starship. I angle his face with my hands to touch our foreheads together, my eyes peering directly (albeit dizzyingly) into his. "So. It's settled, then? We're going to go to Lima, Ohio and completely stir up the dog shit by telling our other loved ones about us… including your mom?"

He leans away, sucking in air too sharply to not make him cough, and I remove my hands. Clearing the tickle in his throat, he mutters hoarsely, "Yeah, alright. It's settled. Just… save my mom for last before we leave, okay? You family has known about your sexuality for along time, and is perfectly adjusted to it. My mom's only known for a handful of years now and she isn't too keen on the concept. She's disgusted with the fact that my lips have touched another man's, among… other things," he relents, and I realize that both of us aren't half the virgins we thought one another to be. Only anally, I suppose. I shiver at the thought, but offer a nod to show that I understand.

I pat his arm, smiling invitingly. "Okay then. It's a promise: we'll go to Lima, we'll have dinner with my family, and the day before we leave for Chicago again we'll go see your mom and try to make her less homophobic."

He scowls, "She's only that way because she's strictly Catholic." His expression gives way to something less sour and merely a ghost of a more sorrowful emotion as he says next: "My dad would have understood. He wouldn't have minded my being gay as much. He was one of those Christians who accepted everybody, you know? He believed that God loves all His children despite their sins, and so on." Dave shakes his head regretfully. "I should have told him when I found out. I could have had him on my side, and maybe I could have changed sooner. And maybe he could have changed, too, so that he wouldn't have died." He bites his lip, and I don't have the heart not to embrace him again.

"Please don't tear yourself apart over it, Dave. Think only of fixing things now, okay? We can't undo the past," I murmur into his ear, "We can only make way for the future."

He laughs breathlessly into my hair, one hand coming up to hold the back of my head while the other finds refuge in my back pant pocket. "How'd you get so wise? You always used to be so shallow, obsessed with fashion and singing."

My subsequent laugh mirrors his. "Yeah, well. Having to grow up and make my own path in the adult world has made me wiser. I don't have time much for those things anymore; I have to support myself instead, doing what's affordable."

Dave pulls out of the hug, his eyes watching me. "True enough," he says, and I think his tears are over with now. He grins to assure me that everything will be fine. But hadn't that been my job seconds ago? I smile in return, mostly at the irony of who's-trying-to-comfort-whom.

We complete our stroll through the park with a stop at an ice cream stand. Chocolate-strawberry for him, vanilla-caramel for me. I casually lick my cone, nibbling here and there, and find Dave staring at me. "What?" I ask, bringing the cone away from my mouth. I touch my face. "Did I get some on me?"

He shakes his head, smirking deviously. "No. It's just… do you realize how sexual you look when you eat ice cream? Especially _white_ ice cream?"

I crack up despite myself. "I'm just eating it how I always do! It tastes best when I savor it. You're just a pervert."

Dave leans over and steals a kiss, right there in public, and I'm strangely proud of him. He tastes good, like chocolate. "I may be a pervert, but at least I conceal it most of the time."

I raise an eyebrow around a languid lick of a drip going over my fingers. "And I don't?"

His eyes follow the movement, then he's looking at my eyes again. "Yeah. You really don't. You're a big tease."

I giggle and take a large (ahh, but too _cold!_ ) bite of my ice cream. Shivering at the sudden (but tasty) chill, I reply, "Well, I certainly don't mean to be so irresistible." And I can tell by this little conversation that Dave feels a lot better, and I'm extremely happy that he's cheered up. A sad Dave is cute, but a sad Dave makes _me_ sad. Hence why I was so depressed back in December, when he wouldn't talk to me for a while and would just brood around everywhere.

He grins, and after ice cream, we return to my apartment to hop on my computer to make plans for our trip. We decide that next week fits best into our schedules, and that we want to stay for five days. The first thing I do is call up my father. And he seems overjoyed that I want to bring home my latest boyfriend for him to meet.

"I had a feeling that you were dating someone, but it's just like you, Kurt, to not talk about the guy much until you know that you want to keep him," my dad chuckles heartily into the phone. "So yes, of course we want to have you next week! Because you _must_ stay here, both of you. I won't have my son at some hotel when he can have better meals and mattress at his parents' house."

I laugh, too. "Okay, Dad. I just didn't want to ask since I wasn't sure if you would want a stranger there… although he's not _entirely_ a stranger; I knew him from high school."

"What? _Really?_ That's amazing! It's incredible that we can stumble across people from our past at random times in our lives, isn't it?" he remarks fondly. "So… are you going to tell me his name? Maybe I know him."

I perceptibly wince. Dave quirks an eyebrow, glancing over my computer screen at me. He mouths, 'Is everything okay?' I bring up one hand and tilt it side to side, making the "so-so" or "wishy-washy" hand gesture. I turn back to my phone, saying into it as smoothly as I can, "I want it to be a surprise! You'll learn his name when he's there in person for you to shake his hand. It's just common curtsey."

He dad sounds indifferent. "Okay, sure. Whatever you say, son." With a smile in his voice, he adds, "Oh, and here's Carole. She wants to talk to you, too."

A second later: "Hi, baby!"

"Hi, Carole," I smile. I'm almost tempted to call her 'Mom' half the time, but it wouldn't be entirely right. It would have if I had known her since I was at least ten or younger. But whatever.

"Ooh, I just had a feeling that you'd met somebody. You were missing them so much when you came here over Christmas. So, how is he? Sweet and charming, I hope?" she gushes, as if we were best friends and not family. Which, I suppose, we always have been; friends, I mean. We're still family. Uhg, I'm mentally rambling. I'm a little thrown by how she doesn't mind talking about people I date.

"Yes, he is," I relay with a cheerful grin. "Not to mention he makes me laugh and comforts me when I need it and is utterly dashing."

I catch Dave blushing out of the corner of my eye. He isn't accustomed to flattery, but he enjoys it nonetheless.

"Aw, that's wonderful, honey! I'm so glad. I love it when you're happy. Just hearing you sound all bubbly and full of love reminds me what you did for Burt and I."

My smile melts into a warmer version of itself, something sentimental and adoring. "Thanks, Carole."

"Oh, don't mention it. Just be sure to bring him straight here first thing on Monday, okay? Don't be late~! – Oh, and Mercedes told us that the next time you visit, you have to go see her. And Artie misses you, too. Did you know the boy walks around town sometimes with his crutches? It's so heartwarming to see," she says, and soon she's making a kissing sound and telling me she loves me and saying goodbye.

"Wow! Artie can walk more often now? That's amazing! And sure, I'll see them. Might as well let them know about my current life. – Haha, g'bye, Carole. Yeah, love you, too. Yep. See you next week! Uh-huh. Bye-bye." And I hang up the phone.

"What'd they say?" Dave asks as I set my phone down on the table and plop beside him, glancing idly at the computer screen.

"Nothing much, just that we have to stay with them while we're there, and then visit a few of my old Glee Club pals. I don't mind. I'm a little disappointed in Blaine, though; after we dated for a couple years, I thought we were going to stay friends since that what we were initially." I shrug sadly and sigh. "Guess not."

Dave's brows come together, his mouth tightening. "Tch. Arrogant prick. Who _wouldn't_ want to keep in touch with you?"

I chuckle minutely and rub his forearm. "Yeah, well. It doesn't matter. That was a fleeting relationship anyway, just like my time at that academy." I shake my head and return my gaze to the computer. "So, how are those plane tickets coming?"

He presses a key and sits back in his chair. "Just fine. They're finished. We just have to print them out. I decided on the eight o'clock flight out of O'Hare. It's the soonest one that gives us the whole day. After that is pretty late, like, after noon. And it doesn't take us to Lima directly, of course, since Lima isn't a major city. We'll have to take a cab once we land in Ohio."

"I figured as much," I shrug. "We're still splitting the costs, right?"

"Obviously," Dave replies. He shifts in his seat. "I just hope they're okay with me. Your dad pinned me against a wall once, remember? And… Hudson. I mean, Finn. He's _never_ liked me. Well, we were sorta-friends in, like, _elementary_ school, but that doesn't really count,. Almost everybody is okay with everyone else during those years."

I somewhat wince. "I know." I grasp his hand and give it a squeeze. "But I'll be there to defend you, and when we see your mother, vice-versa. Together, we're stronger. What's that phrase? 'A house divided cannot stand, but…' Um. Whatever; you get what I mean." I say with a dismissive turn of my wrist. I send my lover a reassuring smile. "…Okay?"

I watch as Dave hesitates, his eyes darting to and fro away from my face, his thumbs twiddling, before he gives me his own assuring smile. "Yeah. Okay," he finally says, an exaggerated sigh falling from his lips.

I hake my head. "You don't sound okay." I pause, standing up to lay my hands on his shoulders and gaze as deeply as I can into his searching, uncertain eyes. "Everything turns out in the end, no matter what. You know that. Hell, we're the prime example, are we not? I _hated_ and _feared_ you in high school. But look where we are now! And I'm sure that everyone else can come to terms with it as well. People's opinions of each other are easily persuaded despite popular belief, and really, no one is as harsh as they seem. Even Sue Sylvester," I add, trying to use an example he'd recognize. "She acted like a bitch, but she protected me a few times. Everyone has goodness and acceptance in them somewhere. It's just _human._ "

My speech over with, I know that I've convinced him by the way he pushes forward and presses his mouth to mine, warm and beseeching.


	8. Finally

Monday morning, Dave and I pop by Starbucks, grab coffee and breakfast, and chat idly with Alicia. But then we notice suddenly that it's nearly eight, and we are chugging our cooled-from-scalding-but-still-very-hot drinks and wolf down our warm bagel sandwiches, rushing out the door.

"Let's take my car," Dave remarks as we hurry down the street. "I can drive faster than a cab can."

"…And I don't even have a car at the moment," I put in. "So let's go with that plan."

It winds up being messy.

We grab some gas and head out onto the highway, Dave putting the pedal to the metal in quite the literal sense.

"Dave, slow down! If you go any faster, I'm sure you'll break the sound barrier," I say, laying my hands on his thigh to try and will his foot to lay off the gas pedal.

"Nah, it's fine; trust me, Fancy. I've done this before. Like, _zero_ cops patrol the highway, especially in the mornings." I giggle at the use of the old high school nickname, turned into a term of endearment.

My smile fades, however, when Dave's words one-eighty into situational irony.

Cue flashing lights and sirens, followed within seconds of a loud, highly offensive curse bursting from Dave's mouth angrily.

I groan, putting my face in my hands. "Are you _serious?_ Is my life so horribly cliché that something as ironic as this happens?" I whine as Dave steadily comes to a halt on the side of the busy highway.

A cop walks out of his car and strolls casually toward us. Dave rolls down his window, letting in the warm May air. "And where might you be headed to so quickly in the morning?" the cop says. He has his hair hidden in his hat, but it looks buzzed short. Giant aviator sunglasses cover his eyes, the stereotype popping into my head momentarily. At least he doesn't have a handlebar mustache.

The cop peers past Dave and spots me. I quickly retract my hand from Dave's leg, having not realized I left it there. The officer's expression changes, his eyebrows lifting above his glasses. He grins broadly out of the blue.

"We were headed to the airport," Dave states firmly. "We have a flight to catch by eight."

"That so?" the officer replies, still grinning. He lets out a short chuckle, and his laugh sounds oddly familiar in that déjà vu sort of way. "Wouldn't happen to be headed for Lima, Ohio, would you?"

Dave glares out his window, glancing back at me questioningly before sputtering at the policeman, "And how in the Hell would _you_ know that?"

The officer laughs again, louder this time, and removes his sunglasses. I nearly die. "Because I'm officer Noah Puckerman, and I do believe you two must be Kurt Hummel and… Dave Karofsky?" he says the last name with evident puzzlement, wondering how in the hell the two of _us_ became friends enough to be in the same vehicle together.

I gape at him before giggling hysterically. "Puck! So _this_ is what happened to you! Dear Godga, I don't believe it! – Just how did you become the authority you once despised?"

Dave looks completely bowled over and _lost_. He remains silent.

Puck, on the other hand, laughs again. "Dude, I tell you, it was the weirdest thing. I was sitting in jail for the night, waiting on a friend to come bail me out with a witness statement since I hadn't done anything wrong, and I got talking with the guy guarding me. He told me that it's fuckin' _easy_ to become a cop, and that it helps put all sorts of rebellion, aggression, and self-confidence to good use. So I thought, wouldn't it be cool to arrest and lock up people who are like how I used to be? That's some ironic justice right there. So here I am, bustin' people all across Chicagoland. It's fuckin' awesome."

Dave finally says something. Or, rather, makes a noise. He laughs aloud, shaking his head wildly. "Man. Never saw that coming. And here I figured you must've fallen off the face of the Earth."

"Nope, I didn't. But speaking of the edge of the Earth… shouldn't you two be headed for Lima?" Puck smirks, lifting his hat enough to scratch at his still-present Mohawk. He's hardly changed, even in all these years.

"You won't write me up for speeding?" Dave questions, suspicious.

Puck waves a hand. "Pfft, no. I know you guys. Karofsky, you used to be pretty shitty in my eyes, but seeing as how you're not kidnapping Kurt – don't think I didn't see where you hand was, buddy –" and he winks at me, causing my face to flush a rich crimson "– I figure you two might as well get the airport, no questions ask. Hell, do you want me to escort you so that you can go super-fast? It's nearly eight, and if you're goin' to Lima, I wouldn't mind you tellin' everyone about me. Especially Artie. Fuck, I miss that kid. He and I oddly became the best of buds near the end of high school."

"He walks with crutches a lot," I remark with a cheerful grin, and Puck looks relieved.

Immediately after, Dave jumps in with, "Fuck _yes,_ escort us! You're brilliant, man! Thanks."

"No problem. Start going and I'll follow you. My lights will be on, but not my sirens. 'Kay?" Puck explains, and moments later, we're suddenly flying down the freeway at top speeds – I don't even want to think about how fast, I'm just focusing on closing my eyes tightly and clinging to the bottom of my seat.

When we arrive at the airport, Puck salutes us and talks to a security officer. Thankfully, Puck is trying to help us go through the speedier security checks, as not to waste too much time, nor appear like terrorists. I don't know why the Fates decided to smile on Dave and I today, but I'm so glad that they did. Because getting pulled over and being late is a tad dire, but having that officer be an old friend and having him help you get to your flight is outstanding.

We make it on board just in time to file into our seats, the remaining two by a window. Dave takes the window seat (I get a little heady with heights) and as the plane starts to take off, I clutch Dave's hand with enough force to start cutting off his circulation and completely turn my knuckles white.

"Scare of flying?" Dave asks curiously.

I shudder. "Not really. I've done it often. But at the same time… I _hate_ the feeling of lift-off every time. Landing is fine, but taking off? It makes me feel like I'm dropping down the highest point on a roller coaster. It makes me _sick._ "

Ave chuckles lightly, reaching over with his spare hand to pat my tense one comfortingly. "Don't worry, babe. The flight isn't very long, and look, we're already in the air. It's over." I don't react to him calling me 'babe.' It's more common than 'fancy,' and a whole lot cuter, despite the fact that both make me feel girlier than I am. (Really! I'm not _that_ effeminate… right? – Uh, never mind. Even _I_ don't want to answer that question.)

I release a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. "I guess you're right." Sighing, I slink back in my chair and relax my grip on his hand, but don't remove it from his. I peer at him through the corner of his eye, wondering if he'll care about being seen. He doesn't seem to mind. Instead, Dave locks gazes with me.

He questions gently, "Would you like to rest your eyes until we get there? You look drained."

I yawn quietly behind my other hand. " _Positively_ drained," I agree. "It's still too early to be up and about doing things. I normally wouldn't be going to work today, so I usually sleep in." I shake my head, remembering how my boss commented as I requested vacation time this week, 'You rarely work here anyway.' She had a point with that.

"Well, if you're so tired, then have a nap. I don't even mind if you sleep on me," he adds, a small smirk on his lips, as if asking me to touch him. I smile lightly, my intentions being to lean on him anyhow.

I curve my body to the right and inch the armrest until it dangles between us, out of my path and forgotten. I don't hesitate to lean my back and snuggle against Dave's side and part of his chest, my head lolling to the side as I lay it on his shoulder. I sigh contentedly, sensing a glance of disapproval or two from some of the other passengers, but not giving a damn in the least.

I reach a hand up blindly, my eyes resting, to find Dave's cheek. When I touch it, I notice the stubble there. I blink my eyes open and tilt my head back enough to get a quick gander at his face. Closing my eyes again, I say playfully, "You know, I've almost missed the stubbly look on you. It's how you were when we met again." I winkle my nose, frowning slightly in my near-sleep. I yawn, "But… I like kissing a smooth face better…"

Dave's shoulders tremble and his chest heaves lightly, a silent laugh. He idly strokes my hair with the hand behind my shoulder. His other I can hear drumming absentmindedly on the other armrest by the window. "Which is why I try to stay shaved," he remarks, and it's the last thing I remember hearing for a while.

.o0o.

"Kurt. Hey, Kurt! Babe, it's time to wake up. We're landing," Dave's low, gentle voice informs me via my ear.

I scrunch my head against my neck, huffing a small giggle, his breath tickling my earlobe. Making a soft groan, I stretch, leaning against him with more force before lifting myself off and away, sitting upright and forward in my seat. I rub my eye, surprised that I had fallen completely asleep.

When I turn to look at my lover, he's smiling lopsidedly at me.

"…What?" I ask, touching my face. "Did I drool?" I automatically check my chin and lips for any traces of it, glad that I don't find any.

Dave shakes his head. "It's nothing." And he stands up as soon as the flight attendant tells us that it's all right to do so.

As Dave and I flood into the airport, we seek out someplace to get a cab and find ourselves oddly quiet on the ride to my house. I nibble my cuticles anxiously, wondering how my family will react, and who will be there. Will I see more than my dad, Carole, Finn, Rachel, and little baby Christa? Will Artie and Brittany be there, or Mercedes? Not Tina and Mike or Puck and Santana, obviously, but what about Mr. Shuester? That would be weird…

I stop my thoughts in their tracks. I haven't thought about the man in a long, long time. He was such an inspiration and guiding figure to me when I was younger.

I wonder if he still works at the high school? Hmm, probably. And teaches Glee Club? Oh, definitely, even if he had to go somewhere else to do it or do it as a non-school-related activity. Still watches 'Singing In The Rain' when he feels down? Most likely. Because of him, I grew new appreciation for the musical film. But what else? How is he? Has he ever re-married? Curiouser and curiouser…

Pretty soon, the cab is pulling over and asking for payment. I pay him, since Dave bought the plane tickets. We turn around and face my home.

"Whoa… trippy," Dave remarks.

"I feel that way every time I come here, too."

He turns to me and holds out his hand between us. When I take it and lace our fingers together, he asks, "Ready?"

"I'm more concerned whether or not _you're_ the one who's ready," I retort, but it's not meant in anything but jest. Dave swallows with uneasiness nonetheless.

"Not entirely, but I won't get readier than this, so let's go."

We march together up to my front door, and I knock loudly.

Carole answers the door. "Kurtie!" she coos, grabbing me, making me loose my grip on Dave's hand, and yanks me into a huge hug, nearly smothering me with her bosom. "Ooh, I missed you so much. I haven't seen you since Christmas! How have you been? And…" She looks past me, pulling out of our embrace to give Dave a once-over with her eyes. She grins approvingly. "Is this fine young man your partner?"

I make a face at the phrase 'partner,' and Dave does the same. But we soon wipe the expression away and smile at her at the same time. I step aside and gesture to Dave, saying, "You bet he is! And after we come inside, I'll tell you his name as an added bonus."

Laughing, she ushers us in warmly, saying how of course we can come in, and how silly it is of her not to have done so already. Once we're inside, she calls out toward the family room, "Burt! Don't you want to see your son?"

I hear my father sputter something intelligibly before racing out to meet us, a goofy smile on his lips. "Kurt," he says fondly, and comes to give me a quick man-hug, complete with a clap or two on the back. He looks to the muscled man beside me and squints his eyes for a second. "You know, come to think of it, he _does_ look familiar, but I can't place him. So, are you going to spare your old man the memory trouble and introduce him already?"

I grin, but it's only out of response to his humor and to mask my mixed emotions inside. "Yes, of course," I say unconvincingly. Using one hand to push Dave to step closer, I remark, "This is David Karofsky. He was on the hockey – and later the football – team in high school."

My dad looks Dave over, smiles, and offers his hand to shake. "Nice to meet you, Dave. Is it all right that I call you Dave?"

My boyfriend shrugs, his nerves seeming to leave him. He shakes my father's hands while he says, "Yeah, sure. Anything is fine, Sir, as long as it's not 'Davey.'"

Dad barks a laugh, and then replies, "Well, great! As for me, anything is fine, too. 'Sir,' 'Mr. Hummel,' 'Burt,' or Hell, if it comes to it, you can ever call me 'Pops' or 'Dad.'" He grins. But his smile fades as he repeats Dave's name, and my stomach sinks. "Dave… Dave _Karofsky,_ you said, Kurt? Hmm. Thought I remember something negative attached to that name…" he pauses, and then his eyes widen a little. "Wait. Fear. I remember you whispered the name while you were trying to teach Finn and I to dance before the wedding!"

The gears are turning in his head, now, and while Carole looks confusingly between us, and Dave stares at his feet, I feel panic rise in my chest. But my father doesn't get angry. He simply puzzles things out.

"So… when you said that it was somebody you knew in high school… you were referring to your former _bully_ , the same kid who's responsible for you transferring to Dalton." My dad shakes his head, running his hand over the top of his bald head. He blows hair out his mouth. "Whoa. What a kicker. I can honestly say I never saw something like this coming." He forces a smile after this, but it gradually evolves into a genuine one as he says, "Well, I'm happy for you, son. I don't know how it happened, but Dave changed because or for you, and that's wonderful."

I sigh with relief, and tears prick the back of my eyes. I blink them away. "Oh, Dad… you have no idea how glad I am that you're so accepting."

He simply shrugs. "How can I not be? You're my son and I trust whomever you trust, because I trust _you._ "

I can't help it. The tears come anyhow. I fall forward, giving my dad another hug. "Thanks, Dad."

Carole's worried expression gives way to proud joy, and she, too, gives me another hug once I release my father. Dave stands awkwardly off to the side, but looks gladder than he came here looking.

For the remainder of the day before supper, the four of us – Dad, Carole, Dave, me – all sit around the living room, chatting it up over the occasional glass of wine in order to catch up. Dave and I tell them our more detailed experiences with Rent and its challenges. We even inform them about the independent film we were offered to be a part of, and how we accepted. Dad gets the floor for a while, telling Carole and Dad (whom he kindly refers to as 'Burt,' but occasionally as 'Sir' as well) about himself; his father whom passed away, his stubborn mother, his progress since being an asshole.

They take everything in stride, and I think things are going perfectly smoothly… until the doorbell rings.

"Be right back," my dad says with a smile, "That must be Finn and Rachel and my grandbaby."

"Oh! Wait for me, Dad!" I call out, rushing into the entrance. I'm met with dazzling smiles from both Finn and Rachel.

"Kuuuurt!" Rachel squeals, gently handing off her baby to my dad's awaiting arms before nearly plowing me over. "I miiiiissed you~!"

I laugh breathlessly. "Nice to see you too, Rache."

"Oh Kurt, Christa's been missing you, I could tell. She's just started talking, you know. She can say 'mama' and 'dada' and 'gramma' and 'granda.' And she can even say 'Mercy,' which I think means Mercedes, since she stops by every so often to watch Christa when Finn and I have to run errands. And ohh, she saw a picture of you and smiled, so I think she missed you. It's so darling," Rachel gushes, and retrieves her baby only to give her a kiss and say, "Look, Christa! This is Uncle Kurt. Can you say, 'Kurt'? 'Kuuurrrtt?'"

Christa looks at me and smiles broadly, and oddly enough, she has dimples like me. "Kurf! Kurf!" she mimics, reaching her chubby little hands out for me. "Kuuurf!"

Tears come to my eyes again, happy ones. I take her in my arms, feeling her hands fist in my groomed hair, but I don't mind if she ruffles it a bit. She's just a doll. "Hello, Christa," I coo, "How've you been? Is what you mommy says true? Did you miss me?"

"Kurf!" she repeats, and bounces in my arms to snuggle into my neck. She drools a little, but I don't think about how it will affect my clothes because she's just so sweet.

Meanwhile, Rachel is glancing around. Looking at me, she asks, "Where is he? I want to meet your significant other!"

I hate how she words it; it sounds worse than 'partner.' Why can't they just say 'boyfriend'? Or 'lover'? I'd take either one over this politically correct crap.

"He's in the living room. Here, take Christa and I'll let you and Finn meet him."

…Except I hadn't noticed that, while Rachel and I were talking, Burt had talked to his stepson and led him into the living room already.

So when I get there, I'm slapped in the face with the air, its intense feelings radiating off of Dave and Finn in waves. My dad is mysteriously out of the room, probably in the kitchen, getting dinner ready with Carole.

Dave tries his best to stay calm, I notice. He starts off with a weak smile and the shaky words, "…Hey, Hudson. Long time no see."

"Not long enough, in my book!" Finn snaps back, roaring into life. I rarely see him passionate about anything, but apparently Dave Karofsky is one of those things.

"Finn, honey? What's wrong?" Rachel murmurs.

"What's _wrong?_ " Finn counters sharply, spinning around to stare at her. "Rachel, don't you recognize him? This is _Karofsky!_ They guy who's slushied and insulted us all throughout high school, and who got Kurt to leave! The dumb-jock, meatheaded _bully._ " He turns on me. "How could you get with _him_ of all people, Kurt? What sort of masochist are you?"

I step in front of Rachel and place myself between my brother-from-another-mother and the love of my life. "Now hold your horses there, Finn," I interject sassily, "This isn't _that_ Dave anymore. This is a different Dave. He's been nothing but sweet and kind and loving to me ever since we met again, and even though he regresses once or twice with an expression or word or two, he's never hurt me. So you have no right to assume he's still abusive or cruel, because he's _not._ At the time, he was just… part of the crowd, and confused, and misunderstood."

Finn looks disgusted and shocked. "Are you _listening_ to yourself, bro? He's got you whipped! You sound like a Stockholm Syndrome case!"

I can feel heat burn my forehead, my temper rising. "As impressed as I am that you're aware what Stockholm Syndrome is, _Finn,_ you've got it all wrong. Now _drop it_ before I –"

Dave lays a heavy hand on my shoulder, making me cut my sentence in half and connect my gaze with his. "Kurt, it's okay. I've got this," Dave mutters lowly, edgily. It makes me back up.

"Don't so anything brash," I whisper. I don't know if he hears me.

Dave stands up and gets right in Finn's personal space, but Finn doesn't back down, Finn's taller, and appears a little beefier than I recall. He scowls, glaring at Dave, and in return, Dave stares back. He pokes one finger to Finn's chest, pressing hard and using his most intimidating gaze to even out the height difference. "Don't you _dare_ act like you know everything, Hudson."

Carole enters the room suddenly, wondering what all the ruckus is about. She stops dead when she spots the intense looks on everybody's faces (except for Christa, who giggles to herself in her mother's arms, all innocent and pure and oh, how I wish I could be just as oblivious sometimes). "Boys, you shouldn't be fighting like this –" Carole attempts, but her son cuts her off.

"Stay out of this, Mom! This is between me and _him_ ," Finn growls. He smacks Dave's hand away, causing Carole and Rachel to gasp and squeak respectively. He shoves Dave backward, and I can tell by the look on my lover's face that he's reaching his boiling point. I raise my hand to my mouth in dread. "You don't deserve Kurt, you asshole! How _dare_ you try to trick him with your little 'nice' act? I can see right through it! You're just as much of a rotten bastard as you were before. So you're gay now? Well big _whoopdee friggin' doo_! That doesn't change a _thing!_ I bet you don't even love Kurt, do you? All you have probably ever wanted to do is get in his pants, quick and dirty, just to satisfy some sick fetish –"

"THAT'S ENOUGH, HUDSON!" Dave roars, rushing forward and tackling Finn to the ground. I let out a loud shout, moving forward, but not near enough to stop them. Honestly, I don't want to wind up getting hit in the crossfire. "You know fucking NOTHING. Where were you all these years, huh? Safe and sound here in Lima, that's where! I've busted my ass to change who I was, become who I am most of the time, and to make a living for myself. What you're implying, what you're _saying –_ It's fucking BULLSHIT. I would _never_ – and you can quote me on this, Hudson – _harm Kurt intentionally._ I _do_ happen to love him, and you have no damn place to accuse otherwise!"

He gives my struggling stepbrother a brutal shove into the floorboards, knocking the breath out of Finn with a strangled wheeze.

As he rears back, ready to punch Finn unconscious, that's when my dad shows up. I'm frozen to the spot, unable to stop it myself, just like Rachel and Carole. But not my dad. He saves the day, tearing Dave off of Finn and looking back and forth between them quickly, yelling, _demanding,_ "What the FUCK is going ON here?"

Finn gasps for air, and when he finally gets it, Dave makes sure to cut him off. "He was saying a shitload of lies about Kurt and I. I set him straight," he utters solidly, taking a stiff step back to where I stand and grasping my limp hand. The other is still raised to my mouth, and my eyes are as wide as when Dave kissed me in the locker room all those years ago. I slowly shut my eyes, trying to regain my composure as my hand lowers itself and my fingers twitch in response in Dave's hand.

"Are you okay, Kurt?" Dave whispers to me, all malice evaporated from his tone. He touches my face and wills my eyes open with a brush of his thumb over my lashes.

My lids flutter open just as I shake my head. I'm quaking in my shoes. "That… was awful. I felt so torn, Dave. I wanted to – but I'm not as strong as either of you – and Finn's my _brother_ –"

"Shh, I know. I know, babe." Dave hushes softly, bringing me into his arms. I curl up against him and inhale his scent, the sensation calming.

I can feel everyone's eyes on us.

I turn around again, blinking, my hand still in Dave's. Finn looks taken aback, if not a tad repentant, upon witnessing the affectionate moment between Dave and I.

Rachel is crying soundlessly, and the baby, I realize, is upset as well, only tiny Christa is bawling from the loud octaves and nothing else.

I breathe in and out shakily. "Don't you guys see? It's okay…" I say quietly. "Dave's okay, and the rest of you need to be okay, too."

Finn looks off to the side guiltily. "I… owe the two of you an apology," he mumbles. He sighs, rubbing a sore shoulder. "I'm sorry I verbally attacked you like that. I should have gotten my facts straight first."

Dave takes a step forward, smiling sardonically. "Yeah, you should've. But…" his smile fades. "I'm sorry too, man. We're adults, but we're still acting like teenagers, solving problems with violence. I initiated it, and I'm sorry."

Finn waves it away. "You're right. Let's… just pretend this didn't happen, and have dinner."

It's difficult to forget something as unsettling as all of this, but we somehow manage and wind up having a relatively comfortable and pleasant meal together, gathered around my parents' table.

.o0o.

Over the next three days, everyone gets used to Dave, and he doesn't lose his temper again. Instead, he smiles and laughs and holds conversations. I'm very proud of him, but I'm actually even prouder of my family for coming to terms with my relationship with my former bully.

On the second before last day of our visit, Dave and I set up a date to meet with Mercedes (her new boyfriend was invited as well, but he was too shy to join us), Brittany and Artie at Breadstix, both to introduce them to the person who makes me happy, as well as to catch up on things.

When they see Dave again, the first thing Brittany murmurs is, "You know, you remind me of a teddy bear."

And I knew that things were going to be okay.

Artie stands with his crutches rather smoothly and steps with minor trembling over to me while Brittany is in the bathroom and Dave is preoccupied with something. Mercedes simply smiles across the table at me, since she's known for a little while now, thanks to our phone and video chats.

I touch the lanky boy's arm, smiling. "It's good to see you mobile like this, Artie. How does it feel?"

He shrugs, coming to sit beside me. He lays his crutches on the side of the booth. "It's weird, and sometimes can make me sore for a day or two, depending on if I overdo it or not. The muscles have been gaining strength for a few years now, but it's not the same as being able to walk as long as normal people, yo. It's complicated, but… I think I'm getting the hang of it," he says with an eventual smile.

"I'm so happy for you, Artie," I say. "It feels like everyone's progressed. Well, except Santana…" and I sigh sadly. Across from me, Mercedes pulls an unpleasant facial expression, something between a cross od disgust and sorrow.

Artie merely winces. "Yeah, I know," he whispers. This tone takes on a much gentler note as he says, "Please don't mention her whenever Brittany is around. Because, um, Brittany… doesn't know." He pauses, taking in a wobbly breath. "I-I didn't have the heart to tell her what happened to her best friend. When Santana started to drift from their relationship, Brittany just thought it was because Santana was busy with some boyfriends. Right now, she thinks Santana is on vacation in another country somewhere. It's… the best thing I could tell her when she asked me why Santana never calls her back anymore." He shakes his head. "I never like seeing her depressed, Kurt. Brittany isn't Brittany when she's blue, you know?"

I nod in agreement, and watch as Dave gives a curious look at his spot being taken. He sits opposite us, beside Mercedes (who sends him an oddly accepting glance), and folds his hands together on the tabletop. "Something up, guys?"

I nod. "Artie and I are talking about Santana, and how Brittany doesn't know she… died," I murmur.

One of my boyfriend's eyebrows lift. "That's… not right, you two. She should know."

"She _can't_ ," Artie emphasizes, turning his gaze on Dave. "It would crush her! _Devastate_ her, even. It's best to leave it alone. Sometimes you're not supposed to know what happens to people after high school. God knows I wish I didn't know half the stuff I do."

I try to change the subject. "Puck is a police officer now," I state as casually as possible, throwing a bit of new information at him on said topic.

Artie turns to look at me, doing a double take. "Say _what_ now?" he says in his wigger-voice. An odd grin creeps across his face.

I nod. "Yup. Dave and I ran into him back in Illinois. It was shocking, but convenient."

Dave grins. "Yeah. He didn't even give me a ticket for speeding."

Mercedes laughs. "Boy, you didn't tell me _that_ bit of juicy news! That's hilarious, and awesome! I can't wait to tell everybody that tough, rebel Puck is actually a little 'molice pan,'" she giggle, purposely switching out the first letters of the two words to sound childish. "It's kinda endearing, actually. I would love to see him now, all done up in a uniform. Ha."

I laugh, too. "It _was_ pretty trippy," I admit, and I'm so glad that human natural allows for the dynamic of a conversation to shift so effortlessly from depressing and hush-hush to enlightening and amusing as quickly as this one had.

Brittany returns, a lopsided, lip-glossed, airy smile on her face. I swear, she reminds me of Luna Lovegood from the Harry Potter movies (and books) sometimes. She says in her gentle voice, "Why are all of you smiling like that kitty from Alice in Wonderland?"

Artie reaches up and grabs her by her waist, yanking her down into his lap. "We were just discussing how Noah Puckerman turned into a cop."

"No way," Brittany breathes, gasping behind a hand. She leans in lowly and poses, "Do you think he'll arrest me for sitting on you? I could, like, hurt you by mistake or something, and then go to jail for it since you're… um."

Artie laughs, giving her an affectionate squeeze that's so cute my heart nearly bursts. "No, Brittany, I don't think Puck would arrest you for that. And besides, you're not hurting me. I feel fine."

She smiles, giving him a peck on the cheek. Her ponytail (I find it adorable that's he still wears her hair the same way, although it's a lot shorter) tickles his ear, and Artie lets out a small noise akin to a giggle.

Mercedes decides to break up the lovefest with a suggestion. "Do you wanna all split a dessert?" she asks, pointing to the dessert menu. "This place has upped its game in that field since you two have been here lasts," she informs Dave and I.

Dave's gaze connects with mine, and then all of us look to Artie and Brittany. She has her arms around her boyfriend's shoulders. She tears her gaze from his to briefly glance at Mercedes. "Anything chocolate," she says. A lazy smile graces her lips. "I like white."

"And I'll eat it if Brittany feeds it to me," Artie jokes.

Laughing, Mercedes nods and we decide to order two desserts between the five of us. When they arrive, we all grab spoons and forks and dig right in; not caring about sharing germs because being fearful of getting sick is _so_ juvenile. I pretend that swapping indirect cooties doesn't secretly bother me.

I smile to myself while we hum Queen songs together while we enjoy the treats, giggling when one of us goes off-key. It's so nice to know that no one here cares that Dave is here. I'm so happy to see that they're acting like how I pictured they might: as though all of the slushie facials and disdainful remarks never came from Dave, or even if they did (because they _had_ , unfortunately), that it's all water under the bridge, now.

As soon as our goodbyes are made, Dave takes my hand outside of Breadstix. We watch our friends get into their cars, Mercedes sending a lasting wave before ducking into her black Jetta. Dave leans over to me, muttering next to my earlobe, "I'm shocked they were so okay with me there. I felt so out-of-place, but at the same time, it was like I should have been friends with them long ago." He shakes his head, leaning away. "I made so many mistakes in high school, Kurt, but I think the one I regret most is not joining the one club I made the most fun of."

I cock my head at him. "Would you really have done it, if we weren't labeled uncool?"

He shrugs. "I might have even done it anyway, like Puck and Finn. They were athletes too, but they didn't care about being 'liked' – and I use the term loosely – as much as I did. If I had just had more balls, I would've joined despite what Azimio and the others said." Dave ruffles his own hair. "I dunno. It's stupid, and I can't change it now, but I think about it sometimes. Being a gleek wouldn't have been so bad, and there would've been a lot less teasing and slushying if I had been part of it."

I grin, temporarily tightening my grip on his hand before I let go. "Don't fret about the past, Dave. You're a singer now, and you're on good terms with the previous Glee Club now, so there's nothing to regret."

He gives me an odd look I can't place, but don't particularly find negative. "I think I needed to hear that. Thanks," he mutters, and soon, we're pacing back to our car on the warm summer night, lightly bringing up conversation about how cute Artie and Brittany are and how sweeter Mercedes has become, laughing when we question where Sam and Quinn were during all of this, coming to the conclusion that they're probably off having loving sex somewhere.

.o0o.

"I have a hankering for Gummi Bears," I comment distractedly as we drive back home.

Dave quirks an eyebrow, briefly looking over at the passenger's seat at me. "Want me to stop at Target?" he asks, hovering a hand over the turning signal of my dad's car (he let us borrow it for the evening).

"Umm…" I hum indecisively, "…Yeah, you better. I really want them," I giggle. I look over at him. "Do you mind?"

He shrugs a shoulder, turning in the signal and getting in the lane in time to turn right on a red light. "Nope, not at all. To be honest, I could go for a Coke or a Pepsi right about now." He grins. "Who knows? Maybe I'll treat myself to some sour Gummi Worms to match."

I smile in return, and after we park and get our sugar cravings satisfied, we wander the store, munching idly, people-watching and making comments on some silly inventions (they have a flat, touch-screen, waterproof stereo that fits above your toilet or mounts on the wall to listen to music when in the shower) and taking out a pair of lightsabers from the boy's section of toys, play-fighting down an aisle until an employee comes and stops us, threatening to kick us out of the store.

"College kids, I _swear_!" the employee, a middle-aged woman, huffs as she walks away. Dave and I burst out laughing, because we haven't been to college in at least four or five years.

I skip over to the bikes in the back corner of the store. "I love Target," I state as I casually mount a non-motor dirtbike. "They have milk, candy, cereal, toiletries, cards, clothes, toys, music, movies, books, cleaning supplies, pet supplies, and even bikes. Basically, everything you need in life in at this store except for a mattress and a house."

Laughing, Dave mounts a bike of his own, and we take turns pedaling in circles around one another. "I've actually never liked this store. My parents usually bought from Cost Co or Wal-Mart."

"Eww, I despise Wal-Mart with a deep, burning passion," I remark with a laugh, my nose wrinkling. "It has a yucky layout and squished aisles and every employee I've ever met who works there is mean, and there are too many obese octo-moms shuffling around there."

Dave laughs heartily, but counters, "It's not _that_ horrible! You're just being snooty and judgmental."

"I'm exaggerating, yes, but you have to admit, some of it is true," I sniff, hopping off my bike.

Dave stands on his, rolling it out from between his legs. "I guess so. At least, I have seen a handful of really fat people there before." He shrugs, putting his bike away while I hang up my own. He helps me get it back up onto the display rack.

We idly roam around the store, circling it back to the front. Tossing out our trash, we make a pit-stop at the bathroom before heading back out to the car.

And while we drive back to my parents' home, I feel complete. I feel like this is where I should be, who I should be with. I feel as though, not to quote Wicked, nothing can bring me down. I can overcome any task, any challenge, that comes my way.

Tomorrow, I am all too aware, will be that task, that challenge. It's our last day here; tomorrow we'll fly back to Chicago in the evening, after dinner. But before we go… we need to go see Dave's mother. We need to talk to her, show her, and hopefully (although the chances are slim, I know) convince her to tolerate – if not accept – who her son is and who he chose to be with: me.

.o0o.

"Kurt," a voice whispers, a nudge landing on my shoulder. "Are you awake?"

"Am now," I mumble sleepily, my voice too loud in my ears. I lower my pitch, lick my dry lips, and force myself to sit up. I don't open my yes just yet, but I recognize the voice. "Somethin' wrong, Dave?" I mutters with light humor in my voice. "Have a 'bad dweem'?" I add, quoting myself from childhood.

I feel him sit on my bed and shift uncomfortably. I pry open my eyes, rubbing them, to find him looking uncomfortable in the dim light. "Actually…" he states with what I can identify as diffidently, "I did. I had a nightmare that scared me half to death." He makes a choking sound, and I swear to the God I barely believe in, I've never heard David Karofsky sound _this_ vulnerable.

I wake up more instantly. I scoot forward and lift myself out of my warm covers to hug him from behind, my arms draped over his shoulders and onto his collarbones. "Shh, it's all right. Tell me about it."

Dave sniffles, but I take notice that he isn't crying. He rubs his nose with a knuckle. "In the dream, we went to go see my mom. Somehow, we were in my old bedroom, exactly how it looked before I moved out. She was standing in front of my window, yelling and cursing up a storm about how wrong I am, how wrong _we_ are, and how much she hates you for 'converting' me. She calls you a temptress and me a demon, and then, all too suddenly, everything looks dark and stretched out, and she's hurtling toward the two of us, a knife in her hands. And – and she – she _murdered_ _you_ right before my eyes, and I couldn't do anything to stop her." He exhales slowly, shifting in my arms to drag me into them, practically cradling me to his chest.

And then I realize it: Dave's greatest fear is not of his mother never loving him again like I thought at the beginning of his dream, but instead of something happening to me because of her homophobia like at the end of the dream. He fears _losing me_ because of her, whether it be because I dump him over something she says or does or because she somehow forbids us from being together.

I wrap my arms around Dave tightly, tears slipping out from my eyes and leaking into the soft warmth of his shirt. "I'm sorry," I whisper, and I feel him shaking against me. "But it'll be okay. There's nothing to fear; think about how Finn reacted, but relented. And think about how all things work themselves out, even if it takes time," I remind him kindly. Lifting my head up to look at his face, I find two stray tears trailing down his cheeks. A grown man crying has always looked so wrong to me. I offer a soothing smile and lean up to kiss him tenderly on the lips. "Now go back to bed, David," I murmur, slowly rubbing his bicep. "And get some real sleep."

Dave gradually shakes his head. "I don't want to. Please, let me stay a while longer."

I raise a brow. "What will my parents think if they find you in bed with me?" I remind.

He frowns. "With our clothes still on? Come on. They know neither of us would have the audacity to have sex under their roof. I just… need to know that you're still here, and after that dream, still _alive,"_ he murmurs desperately, and honestly, how can I say no to something like that?

So, yielding, I guide him onto the bed fully and assist him under the covers. I lay on my side, and he curls up right behind me, his arm landing protectively around my waist. I can feel his nose on my neck, and his forehead at the base of my head. His moist breathing against my spine sends shivers down it, goosebumps rising. It's not sexual, surprisingly, but that doesn't stop me from finding this extremely intimate, worse than any other time we've slept beside each other.

Because this time, Dave bore his emotions to me, out in the open where he rarely places them.

People who bottle up their emotions are like volcanoes: they're bound to erupt. I feel honored that I'm the one who is privileged to see Dave's eruption.

I stroke his arm around me, my other clenches tightly to the pillow beneath my head. "I love you, David Karofsky," I murmur, trying to remind him why we're facing a dragon tomorrow.

At first, he doesn't reply. Then with a despairing note, he whispers back, "Please, never stop saying that," as his grip around me tightens. "Stay with me for as long as you can, and never stop telling me that, as long as it's true."

I stiffen lightly, finally understanding that the thoughts I had about Dave being a pathetic coward in high school was mostly correct; all along, all he needed was someone or something to set his record straight, because underneath his Neanderthal exterior beat the heart of a fearful, hurting boy.

My heart aches at the thought, and as I move to lace the tips of my fingers in between the cracks just above Dave's knuckles on his hand, my heart skips a beat. "What's with this co-dependency, all of a sudden?" I question, but it's meant sincerely, spoken out of humbling and worrying feelings rising in my chest.

Dave makes a stifled noise, something soft and pained. My stomach jumps at the sound, and I move to face him, but he stops me with a gentle push to my shoulder. Apparently, he can't face me even in the dark as he murmurs, "Not 'all of a sudden.' This… has been building up for a while. Aside from a few tiny things, you and I are _so_ different, Kurt. Opposites, even. And because you are… _everything_ that I'm not…" he struggles, and finally admits, "I _need_ you. I need your strong will when I see my mom tomorrow. I need your touch when I get insecure at times. I need you to calm me down when I lash out. There is so much wrong with me, but… you make it right. Even without meaning to, you always _have._ "

Because I made him question himself; I made him as himself why he felt guilty for harassing the Glee Club, why he seemed to be attracted to me, why he did the things he did, why he felt so out-of-place when everyone was putting him in the place he was, and why he felt the need to change and find himself a path that led him to… well, bring simply _Dave._

I lean back against him, and I feel his lips press against the nape of my neck. "I know this moment is rare. I know you're probably not going to be this open again any time soon, so while you're like this, can I just say that I've already been planning on staying with you for a long, long time, if not forever? You're not the only one who feels like the differences between us keep us balanced. I feel it, too, Dave. I've felt it for a while. This might sound corny, but… you complete me." I pause, unsure of myself, but say one last thing: "I said, 'co-dependency,' mind you. Which means… I need you, too."

I think he might be crying again, but I can't tell. Even broken like this, terrified from his dream and anxious about tomorrow, Dave still feels so sturdy to me, as if being this way somehow makes him stronger. I don't know. All I know is, I really do love him. I don't know if I'm still considered too young to know, but I feel as though I can't live without him, now that I have him.

And that's why I'm going to go to war for him, especially if it means sparing him more pain from his condemning maternal figure.

.o0o.

I smack my lover's hand away from his mouth. "Stop ripping off your nails! They'll grow back weak and misshapen, since I _know_ you don't plan on filing them."

He licks his lips. "Sorry. I'm just nervous."

I sigh, patting his arm. "I know you are, baby. But I'm with you, remember? No matter how bitchy your mom gets, I can be twice as bitchy back, and you know it."

He chuckles the tiniest bit, feebly and apprehensively. "Right. I know."

But I catch his fingers rising to his mouth again anyhow. I lower them without another word, and silently offer to drive for him by gesturing to myself and then the steering wheel.

He inhales and exhales carefully. "No… no, I can do this. My stomach is all jittery with nerves, but even blindfolded I could drive back to my own house."

I make a face. "Let's never test that theory, shall we? I believe you."

And he laughs in that same away again. We're quiet for the remainder of the ride, as short as it is.

When we reach his house, Dave whispers to me how eerily the same it is.

We approach the door, and I can feel the negative energy stockpiling like nuclear bombs. I wonder to myself with dry humor when said bombs will go off.

As it happens, they go off as soon as widowed Mrs. Karofsky answers the door.

She venomously spits out, "What the Hell are _you_ doing here, David? I'm still furious with you!"

"Mom…" Dave pleads, "Can't your only son come to see you?" His tone drops lower, into some deeper, darker waters as he mutters, "I'm not asking for forgiveness, only a chance to tell you about my recent life. It's like you don't even want to be part of it any more."

She looks him up and down, and then her eyes shift to his right, where I'm standing just behind him. "Who's _this?"_ she sneers callously. She looks me up and down, taking note of my hair, my clothing, my style in general. "He'd one of those ungodly _homos,_ isn't he? And you brought him here! What, looking for my approval of your new _butt-buddy,_ David? Well you can march right back to your car, because you aren't getting any from me!" And she nearly slams the door shut.

Dave tenses all over and stomps one foot forward, the door ramming into his shoe. The May weather blazes hotter from the fury stirred by this action.

I jerk backward as Dave's mother throws the door open again, shouting, "How _dare_ you, David! How dare you ruin everything I raised you to be! How dare you storm in here, trying to worm your way back into my life and my house and dangle your revolting 'love-life' in my face! Leave, NOW! I don't have the time or energy to deal with you right now! You _disgust_ me!"

"Worm my way in?" Dave returns, just a harshly, but oddly keeps his tone level and at a much lower octave than her shrieks. "I've called you at least once or twice a week for years, asking to see you, wanting to know how you've been. You're my _mother._ I still care about you, even when you seem to clearly no longer care about me ever since you found out that I soiled your g'damn 'perfect,' Biblical ideals of who a man should sleep or fall in love with.

"If anyone, _you're_ the disgusting one, Mom; you've abandoned and shunned your own _child,_ all because I came out to you. I'm sorry, _Mother_ , but I ruined _nothing._ All I did was tell you the truth, because like it or not, I didn't _choose_ this. I tried not to, okay? I resisted with all my might not to be one of the 'faggots' you hate so much, because I knew I'd get ridiculed from it by not only the people at school but by you, too. I didn't want this to happen. I tried to stop it. But look where we are! Yelling at each other years later, you blaming me for ruining your life and making things all the worse on you after Dad died, and before I can even introduce you to the man standing next to me, you attack us both!

"Well, I'm sick of it. If you want me out of your hair, then _fine,_ I'll go. You'll never have to receive another call or visit from me again, because guess what? I'm not changing. I'm finally _happy._ I'm not suppressing anything, not hiding behind anything any longer. I don't mind who I am, and I have somebody who loves me through and through for me being _me._ I don't need your approval. I don't _want_ it. All I wanted was to try and connect with you one final time, but I guess even that is futile."

I'm blown away. I don't know where he got the courage and strength, but Dave just told off his mom in the doorway of her home while she stood there, motionless, arms at her sides, her mouth closed and her eyes dull, silent and listening. Her eyebrows are the only things telling of emotion on her aging face: she's scared. And wounded. And remorseful. And thoughtful.

Which gives me a small ray of hope that she might change, or at least come to terms enough to talk to her son again.

As Dave turns and leaves, headed angrily for the borrowed car, I take one last look at the suddenly tired-looking woman before me. I take a step closer, ignoring the curt holler from my boyfriend to "come on."

"Mrs. Karofsky?" I murmur, trying my best to use my watery blue eyes to my advantage, even though my expression is completely genuine, "I don't blame you. It's hard, I know. I was lucky enough to have a father who guessed my sexuality when I was as young as three, and had time to grow used to it. My mom died when I was young, but she didn't seem to mind, either. I was blessed in that way, and just as blessed when my stop-mother came into my life, accepting me for who I am instead of the gender I prefer. I just hope that… over time… you can do the same for Dave." I pause, watching her lips part, as if about to say something. Hen no words sprout from her, I continue, "David has become a wonderful man. He used to bully me in high school, but he's come so far since then. I hope you can someday see that."

And without giving her time to respond, I turn and flee toward the car, plopping into the passenger's seat.

"I think she'll come around eventually," I say softly as Dave puts the car in gear and starts to drive off.

He exhales steadily, a tremor in the air current. "I fucking _pray_ so."

And as a choked out escapes him, I crane my body over the space between us to give him a kiss on the cheek. Then I do up my seatbelt and ride out the silence in peace.

.o0o.

Carole greets us as soon as we enter the doorway, just in time for dinner before we call a cab to the airport again.

"Oh, how did it go?" she asks worryingly, her hands up to her chest. She reaches out to touch the sides of our faces at once. "You both look like you just watched a man drown."

Dave sighs, gently removing her hand from his face. "My mother… is not someone who absolves easily."

I mentally commend him for the vocabulary word. In some ways, it works better than simply saying 'forgives.'

Carole nods, understanding. She offers a smile. "Well, we made sure to make you two the best damn dinner of the week, just to comfort you before you head back to Chicago." She takes us both by the wrist and leads us into the kitchen. "And look! Rachel even baked you a cake."

The aforementioned brunette smiles shyly, standing beside a yellow cake she's applying store-bought chocolate frosting to. "Well, I attempted it, anyway. It probably won't be super moist or anything, since all I did was follow the box. But it'll be a nice pick-me-up, I think." From some corner of the house, a baby starts wailing. "Oh! Speaking of picking up, I need to go get Christa. It's time for her dinner." And with a smile, she rushes out of the kitchen, a bottle in her hand.

Following dinner, Dave pulls me aside just before cake. "Kurt, can I talk to you about something? We didn't get a chance to in the car since I was still tense, but now I'd like to ask you something."

"Sure, anything," I tell him.

Dave's face takes on a deadly serious expression. "I don't care what you said to my mom. I know you have my back. But I was thinking over how you _did_ stick up for me and say something to her, and how caring you were last night, and how long we've been together by now, and, well… I thought, after we get back to Chicago, you might consider moving in with me." He offers a smile, probably amused by the stunned look on my face. "I know living together is a huge step, but I want to take it."

I stare at him for an everlasting moment. He starts to grow nervous, but I just… can't speak. I try to, my mouth opening and closing a few times like a gaping fish. I want to scream, 'Yes, YES! Of course I want to live with you! I would like nothing more than that.' But I'm so much in shock and awe that _he_ suggested it first (I was actually debating with myself for the past few weeks nearly every night while lying awake in bed whether or not _I_ should ask _him_ to come live with _me,_ but this works, too; I mean, he has a _fireplace_ ) that I simply can't say anything.

Dave takes my hesitation/nonresponse as confirmation of his thoughts about me not being ready. "It's okay, Kurt. You don't have to say yes. I know it's a little intimate, and a bit silly of me to ask at a time like this, almost out of nowhere. I'm sorry. You can think about it, though."

And he's about to turn away, but I can't let him leave without knowing that I really, really want to accept.

I grab his sleeve. "W… wait," I stutter, blinking rapidly. My crystalline blue eyes flutter up to gaze into his chocolate ones. "I didn't say no," I say, finally breaking out into the ecstatic smile that reflects how I feel on the inside. "I was just stunned, that's all; I was going to say yes. Yes, _very much_ yes, _**please**_ yes! I was actually going to suggest it to you later, but I just didn't know what you'd say, and now –"

Dave doesn't even give me time to finish speaking. He crushes his lips onto mine, pulling me against his chest and, as he releases my lips, swings me around.

"Clearly, I must have just made you the happiest guy on Earth," I giggle, spinning dizzily out of his grasp.

He grins wickedly. "You have no idea."

.o0o.

"Ahh, Chicagoland~," I sigh contentedly as I step off of the plane. I turn to my boyfriend as we grab our luggage and head out of the airport, passing through inspections and the like. "It's good to be back. But I wonder, how much longer am I going to call my home 'home?'"

"For as long as you need. Just say the word, and I'll inform my landlord of another resident in my apartment to split the rent with, and it'll all be arranged. I'll help you move, too," he informs me.

I grin for all my lips are worth. "Good. Because I honestly don't want to be there much longer. My apartment is nice and all, but if I can pay at least a little bit less for rent each month, I'll be able to quit my awful job at that filthy local establishment that people try to play up to be some grand multi-purpose drugstore, but let's face it, it's nothing more than an upper class convenience store."

"…You mean Walgreens?" Dave says, finding his car in the parking lot spot he rented for the five days we left it here. He unlocks it, tosses our luggage in the backseat, and opens my door for me. As I slip in, I remind myself to wait for him to do the same before I answer.

After he's seated and buckled, I reply with conviction, " _Yes,_ fucking _Walgreens_. I wish I had never taken that job there. You know, a month later, a spot opened up at Barnes and Noble, but I needed to wait for my three-month benefits to kick in first, so I couldn't quit yet? It sucked. And now I have the six-month benefits, waiting on the twelve-month one, but I don't want it anymore. Besides, we'll be doing that independent film soon, and that will make me at least a drop of extra cash that I no longer need Walgreens for."

"Point," Dave agrees, flying down the highway at regular speeds. "Well, if you say so. You can move in within the week, if you'd like."

"That seems a little fast, but it suits me. I like rapid changes. It gives me more time to adjust after I'm settled into the new situation," I relay with a vague smirk.

"So it's decided, then. We can actually try this out." He exhales exaggeratedly. "I just hope that it _does_ work out."

"Trust me, it will. I'm a fabulous roommate. I keep things clean, I do my fair share with meals, and I pay my rent on time."

Dave shakes his head. "I figured as much. I'm more worried about myself. I have the habit of forgetting to take out the trash, and I randomly get insomnia."

I shrug. "No big deal. I can handle those things. I can remind you of the trash and stay up with you when you have insomnia. I used to do it with my dad all the time, on both accounts. So don't worry, we'll work. I'll make sure of it, because unlike you, I have the belief that any problem is fixable." It's how I lived throughout high school: I solved my problems in any way I could, at least by trying if not succeeding. Like by dating Brittany to hide my sexuality, or by transferring to Dalton. I made due with the options I had to overcome obstacles, and now is no different.

Dave nods, more confident now. He smiles hazily. "Yeah, okay."

.o0o.

I collapse onto the couch, utterly exhausted. "Is that the last of it?" I comment with a sigh, glancing around the re-arranged room. All of my stuff oddly has a place, filling in the gaps of Dave's décor, and giving him more seating room and less awkward empty space. I gave up a few things, but I traded them for what Dave had, like his (better) television and his (much better) stereo. Things of that nature.

Dave smiles with closed lips and comes to plop down beside me. "Yup, that's all of it. And this place has never looked so good, if I do say so myself. And it's never felt less lonely."

"Oh, I hear _that,_ " I agree, reclining my head backward on the sofa and shutting my eyes. "Sometimes I hated being at my apartment with no one there. No Dad, no Carole, no Finn, like how I grew up. And then… no you," I add, opening my eyes and sending him a soft look. A dimpled grin overtakes my mouth. "But _now_ I have you, and everything is peachy-keen."

He chuckles at my wording and leans over to give me an extensive, leisure, tender kiss. I meet him partway and pucker my lips expectantly. He smiles a bit into the kiss before nearly reducing me to a melty puddle with it.

"Mm," I hum contentedly, "That will never get old."

"I sure hope not," Dave replies a hair drowsily, "Because kissing is probably the one thing I'm good at. It's probably what first convinced you to even remotely put me on your gaydar all those years ago."

I raise a lazy finger. "Point," I say, quoting him from earlier this week. I smile at him, but it turns into a yawn. "Okay. That's it. I can't take it anymore; I'm beat. I need to get to bed. All that moving and arranging for hours and hours… yeah, I don't have the stamina for that." At this moment, Figgles decides to hop onto my lap, and I pet him idly. He seems tired, too, even though he didn't have to do anything.

"Sadly, neither do I," Dave says, also yawning. He glances at his watch. "It's nearly eleven, anyhow. We should be hitting the hay soon. Unlike you, I actually _do_ have work tomorrow," he reminds me with a mocking-glare that says, _I-blame you-if-I'm-too-tired-at-work-tomorrow-you-lucky-jobless-bastard._ I laugh at this, because we both know he doesn't mean it.

Dave stands up from the couch first, turning on his heel to offer me his hand. I take it, and he hauls me to my feet. Together, hand-in-hand, we stroll into the bedroom and get ready for bed, neither of us so much as batting an eyelash at the strange routine we develop almost instantly, one changing with the other brushes their teeth, and then switching.

Then we climb into the same bed (this was all me; I insisted that I liked his mattress best and that I would rather sleep with him every night than be in another room, since I get lonely, which is all true), curling up like spoons in a drawer and falling asleep together.

…And I honestly feel like this is how my life should be, and that I could really get used to this. La Vie Boheme; life Bohemia, living the life of a person with artistic or literary interests who disregard conventional standards of behavior.

And that's me, to a tee. I'm a singing and acting sort of artist. Through this, I re-met my high school bully, fell in like with him, then fell in love, then came to love-love him, then helped him through the process of acceptance on more parts than his own, and then, most recently, moved in with him; all within the course of, what? Half a year? Hmm. Speedy to some, but… just right for me.

And I plan on keeping things this way.

o0:Finite:0o


End file.
